"The Lay of Sir Berkley of Fairdale (Part One)"
By;fernand jiro
A noblewoman waited for them at the postern gate. Her plaited hair was bundled around her head in a great ball, reminiscent of the turbans worn by the followers of the Termagant. It was held together by a gold-spun net that sparkled in the new sun of the morning. She had a scarf of blue silk, the same cornflower hue of her gown, in one white hand, and was flicking it through the air idly. She smiled as Berkley approached.
“Sir Berkley!” Her lips parted around white teeth, kept immaculate by lengthy rituals every morning and eve. Berkley answered her shallow curtsey with a stiff bow, his face carefully composed to serenity.
“Lady Claire,” he said, halting on the cobblestones. His courser halted behind him, the clop-clop of its horseshoes on the stone ceasing. It snorted and shook its mane.
Gathering her long skirts up in one hand to avoid the dust on the ground, Lady Claire stepped forward to stand before Berkley. With her mousy hair piled on top of her head, her height was increased to reach just over the man’s broad shoulders, which were, at the moment, hung with his heavy white mantle. “I came to bid you farewell,” the lady began. “And to wish you luck on your quest; and here is a token of my goodwill, if you would have it.” She brandished the scarf, and, letting her skirts drop, reached for Berkley’s hand.
But the knight recoiled, politely. “Lady, I bid you remember that my heart is promised to another. I cannot in good faith wear your favor—though I appreciate the thought of it.” He bowed again. Pouting, Lady Claire retreated a step, hands clasped in front of her. “Now, I beg your pardon, but I would be on my way.”
“Quite so,” she said, disappointment breaking into her voice. Biting her lip, she looked up again. Berkley brushed past her, avoiding her eyes, only guiding his courser, and his dwarf and pony and sumpter to the postern. Lady Claire turned and headed for the inner bailey, and, thence, her chambers. Her blue dress shimmered in the sunlight as she retreated, reflecting the azure heavens above.
The postern gate was a small door set into the base of the curtain walls, to the north east of the gate proper. It was a modest portal, for peaceful egress and surprise sorties in the midst of a siege. For the latter use it was glamered from without, just another length of dark stone blocks indistinguishable from the wall; a little trick of the court magician. From within, however, it was perfectly obvious, an oaken door bound with iron for strength. It was unattended, and Berkley handily swung it open. He let the dwarf and the pony and sumpter past, and then slapped the courser through before entering himself, and shutting the door after himself.
Thus, they stood on the outskirts of the High King’s castle, Cayr Carron. This was the easy slope side, which melded seamlessly with the green fields surrounding, and the serf’s hovels and mills. The western slope was composed simply of craggy stone thrust up from the earth in a naturally sheer wall. Cayr Carron’s own man-made walls of hewn stone rose from the jagged craig that rose in the midst of the valley, and cut off the gentle slope that provided entrance to its high keep.
Berkley mounted his courser, setting one foot in a stirrup and swinging the other over. Secure in the saddle, he was less seated than standing with the support of his posterior fast in the saddle, as the stirrups ran the length of his legs. It provided extra support when jousting that way. Behind him, his dwarf climbed into the pony’s saddle, with a seeming clumsiness that belied the true dexterity he possessed. As his dwarf gathered the sumpter’s lead, Berkley turned his courser for the fields below, and the broad kingdom beyond.
They set out under the morning sun, making good time across the open fields and circling around the edge of the forest until the old road ran beneath the hooves of their mounts. Fellow travelers were common at this time of year, in the early summer. Pilgrims gathered in great bands to wander the land, seeking the myriad shrines of the Threefold King and reveling in the entertainment of wandering minstrels who plucked at many-stringed zithers and let their voices rise through the air. Merchants journeyed also, bearing carts of expensive wears. Sometimes Berkley caught a glimpse of silky fabrics and exotic spices under the tarpaulins protecting their cartfuls.
Once, Berkley passed another knight, headed back to Cayr Carron with a train of retainers. He rode with his basinet unhinged, and when he came within hailing distance, Berkley recognized him as Sir Garon the Heavy-Handed. One of his fists, the right one, was nigh half again the size of his other hand. It rested solidly on the saddle horn, while his other lightly trapped his destrier’s fringed reins. They saluted each other as they passed, and then turned their eyes onward, toward whatever goals lay before them.
Berkley set a stiff pace. They traveled the roads and byways of the country at a trot, only stopping to camp when the sun had set, and rising with its first gleaming rays. There was little respite, and the countryside rolled by in a blur of several days. Three weeks vanished into the idyllic pastures. Farmers fields from Callishire melded into the rolling knolls of Hillshire, and both fell away as Berkley plunged into the forests of the Greatwood. The goal lay across that thick patch of trees that sprawled across the eastern edge of the kingdom for dozens of leagues in any direction.
Choosing one of the small paths that broke from the main thoroughfare, Berkley and his dwarf proceeded into the Greatwood. The dirt trail was thin and winding. At many points, foliage covered it over, hiding the narrow path from a casual glance, and Berkley watched carefully from his seat on the back of his courser for its course. Huntsmen’s posts were scattered amid the trees, many leagues between. Sometimes they were manned, and Berkley and his dwarf received directions or succulent venison from the green-coated men who sat at firesides stroking their beards.
After eleven days, the trail had long since vanished, and all that remained to guide them were the vague directions offered by the hunters, and the sun that peeked intermittently through the heavy canopy.
Berkley broke camp on the twelfth as the sun’s rays lanced through the trees. Rising from his armor, he slung the cloak that had kept him warm through the night over his shoulders. After pissing in the stream that bisected their little clearing, he strode over to the tiny bundle of his dwarf still curled on the ground and gave the fellow a nudge with his foot. While his dwarf collected their things, Berkley saddled his courser, and dwarf’s the pony, and set the saddlebags across the sumpter.
All around, the sounds of the forest waking rose in crescendo. Birds whistled from their high perches, and the trees sighed. The brook in the middle of the glade, babbled plaintively as it rushed over its rounded rocks of its bed.
The knight and his servant worked silently, bent to their tasks. Once the preliminary jobs had been finished—the horses saddled, the coals buried—Berkley stepped over to his armor, dwarf in tow. The small fellow, barely the height of his master’s waist, waddled awkwardly across the grassy glade, tasseled hat bobbing back and forth. His livery was stained from the forest floor and the weeks of travel, and Berkley avoided looking at it.
Despite his size, the dwarf was quick with his hands; once Berkley had shrugged into his aketon, the dwarf began immediately lacing up chausses and greaves. After that, it was a short matter until Berkley was fully armed; his mail hung heavily upon his shoulders, and his surcoat over that, and his sword was girded at his waist. Slinging his shield over his back like a turtle, the knight climbed into the saddle of his courser. He had to bend far over to receive his greathelm from the dwarf, who raised himself on his toes to hand it off.
Then the dwarf scurried for his pony, collecting the sumpter’s reins as he did so. And they set forth once more, led by the position of the sun through the leafy green above, and sometimes by a deer track or a woodsman’s path. The forest rose all around them. Mighty oaks spread their branches to the sky, and maples struggled to find the breaks beneath their greater cousins’ reaching limbs.
A fox darted across the path, starting Berkley’s courser. Its red coat flashed in the underbrush, a moment of brilliance in the all-pervasive green. The knight patted his horse comfortingly and they moved on as the mischievous squirrels chattered above them in agitation. Sometimes an acorn would fall from on high and glance off Berkley’s sturdy mail, much to the chagrin of the offending rodent.
Behind, the dwarf on his pony bobbed back and forth, ungainly in his seat. His hat, shapeless and tasseled, seemed ever on the verge of falling, to reveal the tousled brown rat’s nest beneath—yet, whenever the formless thing was sure to fall, a malformed hand was there to replace it.
He spat into the underbrush to his left, and Berkley admonished him. “Be civil, Davin.” The man’s voice was possessed of powerful timbre, even when so quiet and firm. It cut through the forest noise easily, and the dwarf nodded, though Berkley could not see the gesture.
“Yes, sire.”
The sun continued to rise, away from the occluded horizon to blaze from the azure firmament. Its light, through the canopy, took on a distinctly green glow, turning the dappled forest into a haze of emerald that danced in the traveler’s eyes. The shadows of leaves fell across their path, forever tossed by the ceaseless breath that carried through the trees and teased their branches. Berkley’s sword bounced against his thigh with the canter of his courser; sometimes he laid a mail-gloved hand against it and held it secure while the other clutched the reins.
Suddenly, the ground fell away before them. The forest ran up against a deep gash in the earth, stretching west to east for miles. Its rocky edges were sheer and treacherous, and cluttered with protruding boulders and jagged edges. At the bottom wound a silver thread, broken at myriad intervals by rough water as white as the clouds that hung in the blue sky dome.
Berkley reined in his horse as the treeline ended, leaving several paces between the cliff face and the nearest oak. Dead wood littered this shelf, though a path could be seen picked out amid the rubble, winding back and forth to the north. His dwarf rode up beside him, level only with the knight’s shining greaves on his pony. Doffing his cap, he whistled, staring out across the valley with the tassels hanging down his breast. Behind, the sumpter whinnied nervously.
Opposite their perch and to the north was seated, on the edge of the canyon wall like a heavyset beast, a grey castle. The keep, a tall black spike of a tower that stood like a dark nail, was girded round by high walls studded with turrets. As a fastness, it looked impregnable—armies might spend themselves against the walls for years and never crack the outer shell. The only visible egress was a narrow bridge that spanned the gap from cliff face to cliff face.
With a nod to himself, Berkley spurred his courser on, through the tree corpses littering the shelf at the forest’s edge. His dwarf followed, and behind him the sumpter, looking drab and agitated with its head bowed and wide eyes staring. The saddlebags bulged around its midriff, and it followed the yank of its leads from the dwarf’s stubby arms.
The path wended along the cliff’s edge, sometimes pressing in so close that Berkley could see to the bottom of the canyon and the raging river far below. In those moments he leaned far away from the drop in his saddle, and looked steadily forward to the bridge. At other times, the trail circled back into the forest for some minutes, passing under the twisted trunks of ancient oaks; sometimes, peering out into the growing gloom of the forest, Berkley caught a glimpse of a narrow mast-straight pine rising in the depths.
Above, the cloud cover was growing swiftly. Where before a few white splashes had crept across the blue heavens, there was suddenly lead weighing in the distance. Swollen clouds, pregnant with rain, inched across the darkening sky, ready to drown out the sun’s golden light.
As the pair drew against the foot of the bridge, a tree spoke to them. “Travelers! Stay a moment, hear my lament.” Berkley started, and his dwarf nearly fell from the seat of his pony. They looked around wildly, eyes straining against the greying light for the source of the noise. “Here I am,” the voice sounded again, and both pairs of eyes lighted on a young sapling rising from the soil beside the path, not twenty paces from the bridge.
Berkley set his helm on the horn of his saddle and gazed long upon the vociferous vegetation. “How now, spirit of the woods? What lament is yours?” His left hand fell carefully against his sheathed sword, wrapping around the scabbard uneasily.
“I’m not a spirit—I have been cursed.” Behind the wind sigh quality of the voice rose the wail of a young woman. The tree shuddered as if tossed by the wind, but no breeze tugged at Berkley’s mantle.
Seconds passed in silence as the knight and his dwarf regarded the sapling, until finally Berkley spoke. “By whom?”
“The lady of yon castle, good sir. She is an enchantress, and I was her servant girl.” Berkley nodded sagely as he listened to this report, and the tree-woman continued. “While she slept, I used to put on her carcanets and diadems and imagine I also was a great lady. One morning I was too slow to return them, and I was discovered. The lady cast me out and bound me here, swearing that I should never be uprooted.”
“I seek the lady of this castle, this enchantress Genevieve. She has kidnapped one of the High King’s court, whom I was sent to retrieve.” Rain began to fall lightly from the heavy clouds, even while the sun’s warm rays pierced the trees. The patter of it on the leaves filled the forest, and Berkley shook water from his hair.
“Oh, knight, she will ruin you. Don’t enter that cursed place, please; just break my curse and we can flee.” She must have known the futility of her argument in the face of a knight of the realm, for her voice held a tremulous note that quavered in the drumming of the rain. Berkley didn’t grace her with a reply, but lifted up his reins and snapped them, setting his horse again to canter forward. The tree-woman’s voice cut through the twofold clatter of rain and hooves. “If you must go, at least let me forewarn you of the dangers within!”
At this, Berkley jerked around the reins and guided his mount back to the tree’s side. It shivered again in a ghostly wind before continuing. “The bridge is enchanted. When you step onto it, flames will rise around your feet. The lady consumes essence of salamander to cross the fires unharmed.
“Within the courtyard lies a dragon, coiled in a black tarn. Its breath is a potent venom, and its eyes will turn you to stone. You must not breathe its air or touch its poison, nor meet the beast’s dread gaze.
“The lady keeps but one champion in her defense, for he is an elfin knight of prowess unmatched. He is clad in bronze skin and is invulnerable.
“And the lady herself—Genevieve is irresistible to any man. Her carcanets cloak her in glamers of beauty, and her perfumes intoxicate even the most iron wills.
“Sir knight . . . please, this task is impossible. Just break my curse and we can escape—flee to the far shores of Samark. I swear to you, beneath this fell mantle I am beautiful.” A cloud passed before the sun, and all was cast into shadow as the rain pelted from on high, and the tree shook her leaves in a strange echo of a keening women. Sir Berkley turned his head to the battlements beyond, grey eyes dancing across its stolid surface.
He turned back finally and spoke, “Thank you for your aid. When I have retrieved my charge, I shall convince the lady to remove the spell laid over you.” And then he spurred the courser forward along the path, followed by his dwarf, who swayed on the back of his pony, tassels damped in the rain. Twenty paces fell away beneath the cantering hooves, and they found themselves looking across the narrow span into the distant bailey. No gate blocked the way at the rising of the castle walls.
The bridge itself was no more than a pace wide, with guards but two handspans tall. It was of the same stone as the castle distant, a smooth, dark grey material that blended well with the surrounding rock formations. The patter of rain darkened it; the middle was slightly raised, and there were runnels that ran the length of it behind the tiny guards. Water ran through the runnels and into spouts that sprayed the water out over the abyssal drop, from the gaping mouths of fantastic gargoyles, to the river far below.
Sir Berkley looked to his dwarf. The little man shook his head, and the tassel whipped back and forth, spraying rain in a wide arc. Tossing his own head, Berkley threw the water from his hair. Reaching to his right shoulder, he unfastened the silver clasp that kept his cloak around him and tossed the garment to his servant.
“A lance, Davin,” he said, keeping straight the hand that had doffed his mantle. Rain began to soak into his surcoat as he sat his mount before the bridge, unmoving. Several spears were slung on the sumpter’s sturdy back, tied in a bundle for ease of carriage and strapped crosswise. With awkward adroitness, the small one turned to it and began unbinding one haft. Moments passed, and the rain fell, and Berkley stared across the bridge into the dark courtyard beyond.
The wooden haft of a lance was placed into Berkley’s gloved hand, and his mailed fingers wrapped around it, beneath the iron vamplate. Setting the butt into his stirrup, the knight lifted the greathelm from his saddle horn and placed the heavy iron upon his crown. Suddenly, his vision was nothing more than a pair of slits bounded on either side by the darkness within the helm. His breath echoed within the close chamber, and rain drummed against it, pounding in his ears. Finally, he lifted the shield from his back, arm slipping with familiar ease into the straps that secured it against him.
He took a deep breath, air whistling through the holes punched into the iron around his mouth. His dwarf looked on with wide eyes as Berkley visibly set himself for the charge against the spell-laced bridge. High above, in the windows of the distant fastness, another pair of eyes peered forth, invisible to those below.
And then Sir Berkley of Fairdale spurred his mount, digging gold needles into the sides of his courser. The horse reared briefly, nose flared, eyes wide, and it whinnied loudly in defiance as its hooves flailed at the air. A toss of its head sent rain spinning from its uncut mane. It leapt onto the bridge, and the moment its iron-shod hooves rang against the stonework, flames leapt up along the length of the span, a brilliant sheet of flame. A blanket of steam hung over the conflagration, from the accumulated water and the rain.
The fires wreathed the courser’s legs and licked at Berkley’s chausses, caressing his knee-length surcoat until it charred at the hems, while the horse’s hair was singed. It stank at once of wet horse and burning hair and flesh. The courser screamed in pain as its belly was licked with agonizing fire, and it fought its reins and struggled to retreat. But Berkley spurred it forward again, digging heels deep into the horse’s flanks, immune to its piercing cries.
His sword banged loosely against his hip, but he gripped shield and lance with steady hands, and the helmed head never swerved from its ultimate goal at the end of the bridge. The courser leaped forward, keening wildly. The ringing of its galloping bounds was nearly drowned by the roar of the flames as they danced across the bridge.
Shielding his eyes against the brilliance of the fire, the dwarf watched from the edge of the cliff as his master was carried through the inferno. He could barely see the man’s shape, lost as it was to the radiance surrounding him; but the steady lance tip, gleaming like a drop of molten sunlight, hung against the leaden sky and marked his progress. And then he was gone, across the bridge and into the courtyard, and Davin retreated to the cursed servant woman to wait.
The courser leapt the final paces, its belly almost clearing the licking flames beneath. As soon as they were over the bridge, the flames died down, a slow dissipation that contrasted with the suddenness of the blaze when first triggered. The horse’s eyes rolled wildly, huge and frightened, and it screamed without end. Its hair, once mottled white and grey, had been seared black, and much of it fell away in ashy powder, leaving behind patches of blistering red flesh.
Berkley’s mail was hot against his legs, and surely pained his mount almost as much, even through the saddle blanket. His surcoat had caught, but in the steady rain beyond the heated halo of the bridge, the tiny flames at its hems guttered out and left behind black smears of ash.
Peering through the slits of his vision, Berkley observed the courtyard. As the tree had said, a tarn lay in the center, between the curtain walls and the tower of the keep. Its surface was black like pitch, and rippled with rings under the caress of the rain. Trees lined the walls on either side, white barked aspens, their leaves quivering characteristically beneath the high turrets.
As the rain battered down the raw scent of smoke, Berkley became aware of a foul stench that hung in the air like oil on water, thick and stomach-turning. Trying to calm his steed and guide it forward to the tarn with firm knees, Berkley could not gain control of the wild animal. It staggered back and forth, screaming still and turning circles on the cobblestone floor.
Behind the knight and his mount, a swell rose in the midst of the tarn, black water running in rivulets from its rounded back. Its dark scales shed water easily as the grotesque head was raised high into the air.
Turning, horse and rider beheld the monstrosity from the lake in combined horror. Paralyzed with fear, the courser finally ceased its struggle against its reins, but would no more respond to Berkley’s commands and spurring than would a rocking horse. He looked upon the thing that heaved itself from the black pool before him through the narrowed slits of his helm.
It was a vast wyrm, serpent body rolling in great coils from its watery abode. The tepid stuff splashed over the shore, seeming to boil over as the monster reared itself against the sky. A hood hung around its neck like a wizard’s cowl, with staring eyes emblazoned on the inner surface. Too late he remembered the tree’s advice, and his muscles locked up as stiff as stone, lance couched beneath his arm, shield raised against any assault.
The beast struck first with its killing venom, a spout of yellow bile that it thrust from a cotton-white mouth in a jet of death. It splashed off of Berkley’s shield, and ran all over the frozen body of his horse, smoking poisonously. Berkley fought his lungs, refusing to breathe the fatal yellow vapors that boiled around him. His steed screamed a final death-keen and convulsed, throwing its rider from his seat as it bucked and collapsed in a heap of broken horseflesh.
Falling to the cobblestone, Berkley was jolted from the dragon awe, the violence of contact forcing his vision away from its terrible eyes. Leaping to his feet, he saw the beast claw its way out of the tarn with two muscle-bound legs tipped with dagger claws. They clicked as they scrabbled on the cobblestones, and the beast roared its challenge to the knight as he collected himself, shield raised against anticipated onslaught.
Another gout of foul yellow bile streamed from the pale, fang-filled mouth, and Berkley raised his shield before him. The noxious stuff blasted around him and steamed on the ground, its miasma coiling through the air like ephemeral serpents. Exhaling sharply, Berkley charged, spear couched, shield raised, feet pounding against the ground. The monster roared and reared its horned head until it reached almost to the heights of the walls surrounding. Its hood was flared to full width beneath its crown of horns, but Berkley bowed his head against the enscorcelling eyes.
His lance shivered against the massive serpent, and a mighty cry rent the air. Berkley’s mailed fist rammed up against the vamplate as the point of his spear plunged into the beast’s belly; it lurched, and the violence of its whipping agony snapped the lance and threw Berkley to the ground. What remained of the spear’s haft was thrown from his hand, and his helmet rang around his head as the monster roared above him, disorienting the knight with partial deafness.
The dragon’s tail snapped out of the pool and slammed into Berkley’s breast before he could reach for his sword. Its spaded point burst several links of mail and bloodied him, and the man found himself once more upon the ground. He cried out in pain and fought to his feet, suddenly aware of the wildly roiling tail and wary of it. He found the wound on his chest to be shallow, though it soaked his surcoat crimson.
Stumbling backward, out of the way of the flailing tail, Berkley scrabbled for his sword. His mailed fist closed around the leather bound hilt, and in one smooth motion the brand was out, naked iron forged into a deadly point. The knight’s opponent managed to settle somewhat, enough to glare at the man who dared oppose its primordial power. The spear was embedded deep within its side, and thick blood oozed out of the jagged wound and onto the cobblestones, smearing them black as the vacated tarn, and mixing with the heavy rain.
Carefully keeping his visors low to avoid the beast’s eyes, Sir Berkley charged. He ran straight toward the massive stalk of the wyrm, heart pounding, feet throwing up a splash of water at every step. The thing’s tail swept toward him, and he angled himself against it so that when the stinger thrust again at his breast, his shield deflected it handily, casting aside the deadly tip and continuing in toward the foul heart.
It roared, and Berkley’s ears rang in his iron helm. His breath was hoarse in the close space, whistling in and out of the tiny holes. Rainwater dripped in the visor, distorting his vision as it drummed in his ears.
The monster struck, then, with its fell maw. With the unholy speed of a viper, and the same unhinged, gaping jaw, it fell upon Berkley. Fangs closed around his shield, the size of longknives and dripping with yellow bile that stank. He was lifted bodily into the air by the colossal muscles of the beast, feet dangling as the monster whipped back its head to snap down its prize. His sword beat against the curved horns around its face uselessly, barely cleaving the thick bone. Its breath reeked of rot and sour death.
Berkley heard his shield begin to splinter in the dragon’s powerful jaws. Hanging at the height of its head, the knight caught brief glimpses around him; the walls of the tower equal to his eyes, and the quavering aspens below; the inner keep of Genevieve’s fastness, and what seemed a pale face peering out of the upper storey windows; the dragon’s burning eyes, deep set in its ugly skull.
With the powerful grace of his long years’ training, Berkley suddenly rammed home his blade into the dragon’s black oculus. It plunged through the soft tissue, iron sliding easily into the skull until the quillons halted further progress. Blood oozed around his fist, and the beast shuddered beneath him. The grip of the jaw around his shield slackened, and with it, the serpentine neck collapsed.
Berkley broke his fall on the wyrm’s long body, its thick flesh providing some cushioning. Nevertheless, he wrenched his ankle, and was severely winded by the power of contact with the earth. For long minutes he lay upon the ground, breathing thickly the dragon stench that still permeated the air as he sought to regain his stamina. His muscles were sore from the struggle against the dragon’s rending maw, and his ankle throbbed.
Finally, the knight pushed himself from the ground, soaked in rain, his blood, and the blood of his fallen foe. Leaning back, he stared up against the walls of the tower before him, perceiving its great height and breathing stiffly. Blowing air from his lungs in a final moment before he plunged onward, he leapt up the stairs to the heavy oaken door that led to the keep interior.
It swung open before he could lay a hand upon it. Revealed before him was an open hall with high vaulted ceilings, and brightly colored carpets, and walls hung with variegated tapestries. He stepped inside warily, helmed head turning every way in suspicious attention. His sword was still out, and slicked with the dragon’s thick blood; it dripped on the carpet as he strode forward, leaving behind a trail of black smears.
Immediately to his right, Berkley found stairs headed up, into the higher chambers where Genevieve must reside, and her prisoner lie. They spiraled up to the right, around a central pillar that would stop Berkley’s sword if he tried to swing it against any defender; so he held his blade behind his shield, point forward and prepared to thrust into the belly of any who stood before him. But none opposed his passage, and he bounded ever upward, following the curve of the stairs until nearly dizzy.
Windows were set fairly evenly in the wall, arrow loops that were wide within but narrow without. They let in little light or air, and with only slits for vision, Berkley could barely see out of them; still, he saw the grey sky, and the rocky cliff walls, and the vast green forests stretching into the distance. The figure of his dwarf was indiscernible, but sometimes he could see the horse and pony, huddled under the trees.
He came upon a landing to another floor. It opened into corridors that led away, likely to servants’ quarters or the like. But they were empty; and when Berkley called his challenge into the lonely space, he heard an answer from above echo faintly down the stairwell; so he continued his climb.
At the terminus of the stairs opened a final storey. Here was a sort of parlor, with a fire raging in an ornate mantle graved with figures of dragons and centaurs. There were sofas covered in silken sheets, and gay tapestries that masked the drab rock walls. A scent hung in the air, faint but alluring; it was sweet like ambrosia.
A man stood a pace from the stair’s head, sword in hand. He bore no shield, for he needed none. His skin was bronze—or bronze had been molded around his skin to such perfection that there was no seam, not even at his joints. A smile was worked on his face in metal, and pointed ears graved on the sides of that peculiar mask-helm to announce his elfin nature. A crest of horsehair rose from the helmet’s pate, rising like a black fountain that shone in the glittering lamplight.
Berkley halted at the stair terminus, one foot firmly on the landing, the other still resting on a step. He stared at the bronze man, shield high, sword still aimed for a thrust behind it, peering from the depths of his enclosing helmet. The other man’s faced helm was similarly slit with two small visors, his eyes glittering in the shadows behind.
“Sir Knight, my mistress is not pleased. You have murdered her guardian.” The other’s voice was pure, soothing to the ears. It rang clearly, even though his mouth was muffled by the bronze over his face. He cocked his head, the metal at his throat seeming to bend in accord. “I am afraid I must kill you now, for trespassing, though I commend your bravery.”
Sir Berkley raised his shield as the elf man brought his sword up and around in a broad arc. The wood shivered over his arm, and splinters rained upon the stair. The blow was wild and fervent, and left the elf open for a quick riposte; so Berkley thrust, point aimed at the other man’s belly. The stroke rang wildly through the chamber, and Berkley felt his hand vibrate painfully on the sword’s hilt. His foe only laughed and raised his sword again.
They traded blows, and every attack from Berkley glanced from the elf’s bronze skin impotently. The knight slammed his splintering shield into the other, momentarily unbalancing him and gaining Berkley the open territory of the room at large. For an instant, peering past his foe and into the chamber proper, he glimpsed eyes and a pale face peering from a cracked doorway; but then it was shut again, and his attention was sealed on the bronze man bearing down upon him with sword raised high.
Berkley’s shield was quickly being pared down by the other’s fierce onslaught. Kindling littered the floor, the remnants of much of the wooden device. Impervious in his metal skin, the elf cared nothing for personal defense and wielded his full strength on every stroke. His sword was grasped two handed, one fist closed properly around the hilt, the other wrapping itself about the pommel to add extra force; and it was working.
Laughing with every ring of Berkley’s sword against him, the elf drove his foe through the room mercilessly, striking with the fury and impunity of a berserk. Berkley’s breath grew more and more ragged. He simply could not cut through the man’s metal skin. Thus, he reversed his grip on his sword, grasping the blade in his fist and employing the heavy pommel as a mace head.
Whenever the elfin knight left himself open after a tremendous blow against Berkley’s shield, the desperate man would lay a stroke against the man’s head with the weight of his sword-butt. The response to the first stroke was a laugh, and a jab: “I thought you knew your swordsmanship, sir Knight.”
Yet, as the blows continued to fall upon the bronze face, he laughed less and began to stagger, as the constant concussions took their toll. The metal around his head caved after several strikes; and then, after a particularly weak blow against Berkley’s shield, the elf collapsed under his foe’s final stroke to his bronze pate. Like a puppet cut from its strings, he fell in a heap upon the carpeted floor, metal costume bending around his joints as easily as if it were his skin itself.
Berkley fell back against the wall, letting what remained of his shield drop to the ground. It broke as it struck the floor, falling into pieces beneath his feet, but he didn’t care, only fought for breath. The wound on his chest began to sting as the power of adrenaline wore off, and his muscles ached mightily—and his left arm was a massive sprain, driven to near uselessness by the endless onslaught of the elf’s heavy sword.
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