King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) (19 page)

“My name
is Arthur.”

“That’s a legendary name hereabouts. Can you live up to it?”

“We’ll see, shall we?” The opponents stood at the ready. The Irish soldiers took the opportunity to seize the three men of Mara Zion and disarm them. The spectators formed a rough circle.

“Wait a moment!” shouted Palomides.

“Yes, donkey?”

“It wasn’t us who killed Iseult; it was Baron Menheniot! He killed Tristan too. Tristan died trying to save Iseult’s life! Or it may have been the other way around, I forget which. Somewhere there was heroism that day. Anyway, your quarrel is with the Baron, not us!”

The tip of Marhaus’s sword dropped an inch. “Is this true?” he asked Torre.

“I wasn’t there,” the big man admitted, “otherwise I wouldn’t have allowed it to happen. But that’s the story as I heard it. Iseult was a brave and beautiful woman, and her death was a tragedy that affected us all. Mara Zion was in mourning for many months.”

“Then came Arthur,” said Palomides. “Not that Arthur wasn’t very sorry about the whole thing as well,” he added hastily. “But as I said, the guilt lies with that murderous Baron, who personally slew the daughter of the Irish king!”

“So what did you people do about it?”

“Why, we lodged a complaint, of course. We made our views felt, I can tell you. But the Baron is powerful and ruthless, so our options were limited.”

Marhaus eyed Arthur and his men thoughtfully. “It seems we all have a grievance against this Baron. He killed your leader, and he killed our princess.” Sheathing his sword, he turned to his followers, his mind made up. “We will join forces with the men of Mara Zion and march together against the Baron Menheniot!”

There was a roar of agreement. The Irish released Torre, Palomides, and Governayle and returned their swords. “We march!” shouted Marhaus.

“Wait a
moment,” said Arthur.

“What?”

“I concluded an agreement with the Baron less than a month ago. We are allies.”

“Well, you’ll just have to break your agreement, won’t you?”

“I cannot do that. I gave my word.”

Marhaus’s sword was drawn again. “Is your word more important than your life?”

Excalibur flashed. “Yes.”

“You’re a damned fool, Arthur.” Marhaus lunged. Arthur deflected the blade with an easy flick. Marhaus jumped back, avoiding the subsequent thrust by a hair’s breadth. “Woof!” he exclaimed, eyeing Arthur with respect. His eyes narrowed. “That’s Tristan’s sword you’ve got there!”

“With this sword in my hand I will never be defeated in battle.”

Marhaus nodded. An Irishman sprang from behind Arthur and snatched Excalibur from him. “That particular problem is disposed of,” said Marhaus. “Now you have your last chance, Arthur. Join us against the Baron or be killed. The choice is yours.”

“We choose an honorable death,” stated Arthur firmly.

“Wait!” cried his three followers.

“Too late,” said Marhaus. “Tie their wrists and ankles, men, and make them kneel before me. I will perform the execution personally.”

Leather thongs were produced, and Arthur, Governayle, Torre, and Palomides were securely trussed and forced to their knees. Arthur remained silent throughout all this, but the others made their objections felt, particularly Palomides.

“I realize you’re a donkey,” said Marhaus, as the screaming began to get on his nerves, “but can’t you at least try to die like a man? Follow the example of your leader. He shows no fear.”

“That’s because he imagines he’s got a great future all mapped out for him,” cried Palomides. “He probably thinks the rest of our
forces will ride in and save him at the last moment. But I know they won’t, you see. They’re cowards to a man!”

“I admire courage,” said Marhaus. “For that reason I would like to spare Arthur.”

“No! Kill Arthur, spare us! We’re on your side. Arthur’s the one whose holding out against you!”

“Only because he’s a man of honor. What do
you
have to say about all this, Arthur? Do you have any last words for mankind before your head rolls among last autumn’s beech leaves?”

“Do it, Marhaus. My death on this single happentrack can have little consequence in the ifalong.”

“You what? Is that some kind of witchcraft talk?”

“My apologies. Do what you feel you must.”

“If you say so.” Marhaus raised his sword. As if his intentions were not clear enough, he shouted, “Die, Cornishman!”

And there was a crashing in the undergrowth.

Marhaus, sword poised above his head, turned. A horseman burst into the clearing, scattering the spring rain from the leaves. He rode a white horse hung with scarlet tassels and wore a suit of silver armor. Behind him, as though drawn by a powerful and magnificent magnet, straggled the forces of Mara Zion on their assorted steeds.

“Saved!” shouted Palomides.

It became apparent that this was not necessarily true. The Silver Knight struck the sword from Marhaus’s hand with a sweeping blow, but the Irish forces recovered quickly and a confusing battle commenced. The mounted men of Mara Zion found themselves at a disadvantage. The surrounding trees were dense, and the more maneuverable foot soldiers of the Irish were able to dart in and out of the forest at will, stabbing and thrusting. The horses, alarmed, bunched together in the clearing, stamping and neighing. Their riders were unable to get any swing behind their blows, for fear of decapitating their companions.

“Follow me!” Arthur said urgently. Still trussed hand and foot,
he rolled from under the horses’ hooves, wriggled through the undergrowth, and found a place of comparative safety under a rocky overhang. Torre, Governayle, and Palomides followed him. They heard the clear tones of the Silver Knight call, “Dismount, men of Mara Zion!” Unable to assist the villagers, they watched the battle ebb and flow across the forest floor. Bull’s-eye arrived and began to lick their faces.

Torre was struggling with his bonds, grumbling loudly when Governayle suddenly said, “Hush.”

“Why?”

“I hear voices.”

“That’s not surprising with the forest full of soldiers.”

“The voices of gnomes. Gnomes are on our side, Torre. Perhaps they can release us.”

Faintly they heard a tiny voice cry, “Oh, no!”

“Woe is us!” cried another.

“Is that you, Fang?”

Silence for a moment, then two small faces peered cautiously around the edge of the rock. “It’s Arthur,” said Fang. “And Torre, and Governayle, and Palomides. And Arthur’s dog.”

“I can see that,” snapped the Miggot of One. “And they’re tied up, which isn’t a bad thing.”

“There’s been a tragedy, Arthur,” explained Fang, “and the Miggot is feeling bitter. Being the Miggot, he blames it on the whole giantish race. I’ve tried to point out to him that there are good giants and bad giants, but he won’t listen to reason.”

“Tom Grog is dead.” The Miggot’s face was contorted with grief and anger. “And the Disgusting is destroyed. It doesn’t matter a bugger whether the culprit was a good giant or a bad giant. The point is, Tom was stepped on by a horse in the course of a battle between giants, which is exactly the kind of thing we were frightened of. I knew it would happen. But nobody would listen to me.”

“We all listened to you, Miggot,” Fang pointed out. “The problem was, we didn’t know what to do about it.”

“That’s
true,” admitted the Miggot, remembering.

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Arthur. “If there’s anything I can do—”

“You can brew a fine dark ale in sufficient quantities to last gnomedom for one year,” said the Miggot nastily. “And possibly a small quantity of stout for the females. And—”

“And a lager,” said Fang.

“And a lager for the more active gnomes, who find the heavier beers tiring. And then there’s the question of the damage to the Disgusting. We spent several weeks burrowing and furnishing the place to the most exacting specifications. And how can you compensate us for the loss of drinking time while the place is being rebuilt? That’s what I’d like to know. And—”

“Let’s be reasonable about this,” said Palomides, becoming annoyed. “And in any case, it was probably an Irish horse.”

“The Irish were all on foot,” said the Miggot.

“That means Tom Grog was killed by a good giant,” said Fang.

“It means there’s no such thing as a good giant,” said the Miggot. “And that’s what I’ve said all along. Only gnomes are good, because we have the Examples to guide us. The very fact that you giants carry weapons is proof that evil lurks in your hearts.”

“I don’t know what to say,” said Arthur unhappily. “Except that you’d better untie us before the Irish find us all here. I can only assure you that the Irish are even more evil than us.”

The Miggot stood with folded arms and a stubborn expression, but Fang began to pluck at Torre’s bonds. After a while he said, “I can’t do it. The knots are too tight.”

“I have my knife,” said the Miggot, relenting.

“What knife is that?” asked Fang.

“The knife I carry.”

“But knives are contrary to the Examples!”

“I pray constantly,” replied the Miggot. “Now get out of my way,
Fang. This is not a time for scruples.” He began to saw at Torre’s bonds.

“It’s all right for
Pong
, ” Fang found himself explaining to Arthur, “because the Guild of Sailorgnomes authorized knives long ago. And it’s all right for the Accursed Gnomes, because they’re beyond redemption, anyhow. But the Miggot? Why would the Miggot want to carry a knife around with him?”

“To cut the Sharan’s umbilical cord,” snapped the Miggot.

“But if that was all it was for, we could use some kind of a sacred knife and devise a ritual around it. We could utter prayers before using it, begging the forgiveness of our ancestors. And then we could put it away until next time. You don’t need to carry it around with you, like a … like a giant.”

“You people really don’t like metal things, do you?” said Arthur, amused.

“With good reason.” Fang told the salutary story of the Tin Mothers. “Long ago the kikihuahuas, our creators, lived on a world far away. You would have thought they were very civilized. They built huge spaceships and all kinds of machinery to take them all around the stars. They explored the greataway for a long time; but in the end they came back to their home planet. They were racially tired. They’d had enough of traveling and fighting and they wanted a rest. So they used their machines to make life easy for themselves. In the end they built the Tin Mothers.

“The Tin Mothers loved the kikihuahuas very much. They were built that way. They fed them, sheltered them, entertained them, and made sure they didn’t come to any harm. And they discouraged the kikihuahuas from doing anything adventurous that might hurt them.

“A kikihuahua called Aoli saw the danger and gathered followers, and gradually they began to replace machinery with organic things. The Tin Mothers let them do it because it wasn’t hurting anyone. Aoli’s group grew, while the other members of his race became weak, lying in soft beds.

“Aoli’s people
became our first genetic engineers, and in the end they invented an organic way to get off their planet and away from the Tin Mothers, and fly through space again. The Tin Mothers watched them go, and wondered where the hell they’d gone wrong. So they went back to looking after the dying people. Aoli’s people swore they would never kill, or light fires, or use metal, because those were the things that had almost exterminated their race. Aoli thought we should live in harmony with the elements instead of trying to bend them to our will. He invented the Kikihuahua Examples and we’ve tried to live by them ever since.”

“That’s a remarkable story, Fang. Do you think that kind of thing will happen to us humans?” asked Arthur.

“Of course it will. It’ll happen to every intelligent species. I’ve talked it over with the Miggot, and he says it’s an evolutionary inevitability. The Miggot often says things like that.”

Meanwhile the Miggot had freed Torre and was cutting at Arthur’s thongs. Torre began to untie Governayle. “I
do
need to carry the knife around,” said the Miggot, “and the proof is right here. These are different times we’re living in, Fang. Tougher times. We must adapt in order to survive. Nobody ever listened to me before, but they’ll bloody well have to listen to me now. Are
you
listening to me, Fang?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, Miggot. Survival of the fittest. You’ve always said so.”

“And do you agree with me?”

“Well, within reason, you know, Miggot.”

“It would be a poor reflection on gnomekind if the only members of our species left on Earth in ten years’ time were the Accursed Gnomes.”

“Absolutely, Miggot.”

“What about me?” asked Palomides, as the other humans stood, rubbing their hands to restore the circulation. The battle seemed to have moved south; a good sign, implying that the Irish were being driven toward the beach. Nobody else made a move to untie Palomides, so Arthur did it. Palomides got to his
feet, grumbling. “We’re missing all the action,” he said.

“First of all we must do what we can for Tom Grog and the Disgusting,” said Arthur firmly. “Show us, Fang.”

Glumly Fang led them around the rock to a grassy glade heavily marked with hoofprints. One print was deeper than the others. The hoof had sunk in up to the fetlock, and the surrounding depression testified to the destruction of the Disgusting. “Look,” said Fang.

At the bottom of the hoofprint could be seen the bloody remains of a gnome.

“Oh, God,” muttered Arthur. He took a dagger from inside his boot and began to dig. It didn’t take long. Soon the broken body of Tom Grog lay on the grass. Arthur took off his jerkin and laid it gently over the remains. He looked up at his men, tears in his eyes. “This must never happen again,” he said. “Never.”

“It was an accident,” said Ned.

“We will not take the chance of such accidents. If we must fight, we will fight where we know there are no gnomes. I gave an undertaking to these people, and it seems I’m not fulfilling it.” He stood, addressing the gnomes. “There are no words that can express my sorrow and regret. I can only tell you I will do everything in my power to make sure such a tragedy doesn’t happen again. We will leave you now. I expect you will want to deal with Tom’s remains in your own way.” He saluted. “Come on, men.”