Sir Ashfall and the Seven Demons
Seven crimson cloaks on a blood-stained field,
Seven mighty warriors in mail,
Given to a task of great import.
Seven steadfast men who mustn’t fail.
“Dark skies ahead,” said old Sir Eddison, casting a wary eye at the encroaching clouds and feeling every crease in his weathered face.
​
Sir Landry, fresh-faced and golden-haired, guided his horse astride the aged knight. “An omen of ill?”
​
“If it be an ill omen, it’s for Cynwrig,” called out Sir Percy as he trailed the two knights. “The sins of the wicked will ensnare them—that druid bastard will imperil the King’s realm no longer. Today, he meets his end.”
​
The old knight turned to face the boastful lad, a knight even younger than Landry. “So certain are you, Sir Percy. I had no idea you had such a talent for divination.”
​
Sir Percy fell silent, recognizing the rebuke. Eddison fixed the young knight with a withering look, playing the part of a scolding tutor. It was expected of him. His duty. But his heart was not in the reprimand. In truth, the old knight longed for the days when his confidence burned as bright.
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“Don’t be too hard on the boy,” said Sir Landry, flashing his winning smile. “I happen to share his confidence.”
​
“As do I,” said Sir William, his darkening face adding to his already fearsome appearance. “When we find this so-called ‘druid king,’ I will remove the head from his shoulders. Then, we will make our feast of victory at the King’s table, while the worms make a feast of Cynwrig.”
​
“Here, here,” said Sir Glendan. “It’s about time we had a proper feast.”
​
Sir Stuart chimed in after his older brother. “And the comfort of our own beds.”
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Landry flashed Eddison another Cheshire grin. In response, the old knight summoned a scowl and turned to the final member of their cadre. “What say you, Sir Allard? Will you add your voice to this choir of squirelings?”
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Allard, closest to Eddison in age but still several years his junior, shrugged and said, “I daresay any one of us could have brought back the head of this druid chieftain. For the King to send all seven? Not very sporting.”
​
Eddison gave a weary sigh, but it was for show. In truth, he felt much the same. This druid, Cynwrig, was little more than a bandit with delusions of grandeur. He had declared himself Lord-Over-All, in defiance of their King. Cynwrig had caused trouble for the smaller villages along the Kingdom’s outer reaches, but nothing to warrant the full might of the Seven Knights, with a retinue of squires and spearmen besides.
​
Nothing could have made the point so clear as the victorious battlefield behind them, sodden with the blood of Cynwrig’s warriors. It hadn’t been much of a battle. The druids had been a disorganized rabble. The Seven Knights slayed many before the rest, Cynwrig among them, fled into the dark forest that lay before them now.
​
It was a cudgel doing a dagger’s work, in Eddison’s estimation, but the King had insisted. And the old knight would see his master’s orders carried out. Even so, he did not like the look of those clouds looming over the forest.
​
“Young lords,” Eddison said, “never finish your affairs in word before deed.”
​
“Heaven forbid!” said Landry, wearing a coy grin.
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The old knight continued, “Sir Percy, you say these dark skies are a portent of the druid’s doom, and I may agree. But our task remains to deliver that doom to Cynwrig by the point of our swords.”
​
“Here’s to the end of our task, then,” said Sir Percy, drawing his blade and raising it skyward, “and Cynwrig’s life with it.”
*****
The seven knights delved into the deep, dark wood,
Leading companies of men into the gloom.
Proudly they made claim of their intent
To deliver Cynwrig his bespoken doom.
The darkening sky now seemed cheerful compared to the murk of the forest, Eddison thought, as he and the other knights led their retinue onward. Twisted, tangled trees weaved into thick canopies, a barricade against the light of day. Gnarled roots and slipshod soil made footing treacherous for men and mount alike. And there was something about the air that Eddison found discomfiting—it was heavy, stagnant, and smelled of decay.
​
Hours passed marching through the gloom, and still they had not found a trace of Cynwrig or his followers.
​
“These dark woods delay us,” said Sir William.
​
Sir Allard nodded. “We have followed the rabbit into the briar patch. He may give quite the chase before we’re able to corner him.”
​
“The sound of our pikemen can’t have helped,” Sir Landry said, removing his helmet and running a hand through his hair. “I daresay the whole forest could hear their rattling. They will alert Cynwrig to our presence long before we can see him.”
​
“Why should that be the case?” said Sir Percy. “We knights can scout ahead. Perhaps we’ll even catch the druid by surprise. What say you, Sir Eddison?”
​
Eddison had already considered this course of action. It was a danger to forsake the numerical strength the soldiers provided. On the other hand, the seven knights still made for a formidable company. They would be swifter if they left the larger force, and the sooner they found and slayed Cynwrig, the sooner they could leave this accursed forest. “I say your reasoning is sound. We shall break from the spearmen and forge ahead.”
​
The other knights sounded their approval, save for Sir Stuart. “Is it wise to divide our forces in such a way? At least, someone should stay behind with the soldiers.”
​
“Nonsense, brother,” said Glendan. “The pikemen are well-trained, and their captain is reliable. The strength of the Seven Knights is more than a match for Cynwrig and his rabble.”
​
And so, it was settled. Sir Eddison instructed the captain of the spearman to make camp and await their return. Then the seven knights plunged further into the blackwood, with only their steeds and squires to accompany them. The lonely forest encircled the knights. Row after row of trees stretched away into the indiscernible gloom.
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Sir Percy rested a hand on his sword. “Some say this wood is haunted.”
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Landry laughed. “I never thought you superstitious, Sir Percy. Then again, you are very young. The nursemaid tales you heard as a child must still be fresh in your mind.”
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Percy glowered. “I did not say I believed the stories.”
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“Superstition or not, ‘tis an evil place, to be certain,” said Sir Allard, casting a wary eye at the black canopy overhead.
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Sir William growled. “An evil place for an evil man. Cynwrig is as wicked as our Lord is just. Just the thought of that druid lurking here stirs up a fire within me.”
​
“Indeed?” said Landry. “Then Cynwrig must vex you less than I thought, for I have seen what sets your blood to boiling, and it requires little effort.”
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William’s face darkened. “Have a care, Sir Landry. I will not stand idly by while my character is called into question—least of all from you.”
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“Will you prove my point so quickly, Sir William?” Landry said with a chuckle. “I would not dare besmirch your good name—but I must confess—I do enjoy seeing your face turn the same color as that cloak about your shoulder.”
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William spurred his horse forward until he was astride the smiling Sir Landry. “I daresay your face could achieve a similar effect,” William said, leaning close to the other, “after the careful application of my fists.”
​
“Oh, you’d make a bloody mess of me,” said Landry. If the simmering Sir William intimidated him, he did not show it. “But think of the repercussions if you brutalized me! I fear flocks of mournful maidens would cast themselves from the parapets in lamentation. Do you really want their deaths on your conscience?”
​
Slowly, in spite of himself, the scowl on Sir William’s face transfigured into a grin.
​
Landry pressed his advantage. “I’d much rather see you lay hands on Cynwrig. Do you think his mother will recognize him once you’re finished?”
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“Can swine even recognize their spawn?” William said, slapping Landry on the shoulder and loosing a thunderous laugh.
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Eddison smiled and stroked his graying beard. Few men would dare mock Sir William, and fewer still could do so and keep their teeth. Sir Landry was as deft with his tongue as he was with a sword.
​
The knights crested a hill adorned with crooked trees and were surprised to see a campfire crackling below. Four druid bandits were huddled around the flame. They stared at the knights with wide eyes under the hoods of their green cloaks.
​
In unison, the Seven Knights drew their swords and charged down the knoll toward the bandits, their squires scurrying behind them.
​
Sir Percy, the swiftest rider, ran down one of the bandits as he fled. Another man was nearly cleaved in two by Sir William’s broadsword. The third tried to stand and fight, but Allard and Glendan cut him down with ease.
The final bandit cowered on the ground. The hood fell away. Long red hair tumbled free, braided and bright as fire.
​
“A woman,” said Sir Landry, staying his blade. The woman’s eyes were wild like an animal. She unleashed a flurry of frightened, unintelligible words.
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“A druid woman,” Eddison said, placing the edge of his sword at the woman’s neck. Any color found in her pale skin drained away. “One of the druid king’s followers?”
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“It must be so,” said Sir Stuart, examining one of the fallen bandits. “Their cloaks bear the same insignia as Cynwrig’s banner.”
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The old knight returned his attention to the woman. “Can you speak in a civilized tongue?”
​
“I can speak your words,” she said, mangled but comprehendible. Her eyes fixed on the sword resting at her throat. “Don’t kill me, my lord. I beg you.”
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Eddison’s face turned as steely as his blade. “That depends on how helpful you can be. We are looking for Cynwrig. Do you know where he can be found?”
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The woman hesitated, and Eddison pressed the flat of his sword against her flesh. She yelped. “Yes! I know where he likes to make camp.”
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“You will take us there?” said the old knight.
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She nodded.
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Eddison lowered his sword. “Very well. I will give you your life in exchange for Cynwrig’s.”
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“Shall we collect the spearmen first?” Stuart said.
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Glendan shook his head. “Why should we delay? The druid chief’s forces have been broken and cannot stand against our might. If this woman can lead us to Cynwrig, let us follow and fulfill our King’s command.”
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The other knights sounded their agreement. Eddison could not deny their zeal. “I, too, wish to bring about the end of our task. This black forest fills me with disquiet, and we should seek to be free of it as quickly as we can.” The old knight instructed his squire to bind the woman’s hands. Once that was done, he told her, “Lead on, and take care. I won’t be so delicate with my blade if your words prove false.”
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The pale woman nodded and led them onward, trembling. As the knights followed her path, Percy brought his steed alongside Eddison. “Did you really mean to kill her if she refused to help us?”
​
“Never have I shed a woman’s blood, and on my honor I never will,” replied the old knight in a low voice. “But she doesn’t need to know that. Not until we have Cynwrig’s head on a pike.”
​
The knights and their squires followed the woman through the dark wood for some time. To Eddison, the trees and rocks and roots looked indistinguishable from one place to the next.
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“Woman,” Landry said. “I have a question for you.”
​
The red-haired woman glanced back at the dashing knight but did not respond. Landry smiled. “Sir Percy believes this wood is haunted, but we haven’t come across anything but you and your flesh-and-blood fellows. Does something else lurk in this forest?”
​
“I should not speak of that,” she said, raising a hand to cover her mouth. The cuff of her cloak slipped down her slender forearm, revealing ornate tattoos.
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“You are our prisoner, and you’ll do as we like,” said Landry. “Speak, woman.”
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The woman looked over her shoulder and a braid of fiery hair fell along her back. Eddison noticed that, even as the woman met eyes with Landry, she had not halted her progress. Her steps along the treacherous ground were certain. She knew this forest well. “There are things here. Things that walk among the trees and streams, and that frighten the animals.”
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“Bears and wolves,” said William. “Same as any forest.”
​
The woman shook her head. “No. These things may take the shape of beast or man but are not that.”
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“Speak plainly, woman.”
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“Demons, sir. There are demons in this wood.”
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Landry chuckled. “She’s as superstitious as you, Percy.”
​
The knight’s carefree attitude was not shared by his fellows. Eddison knew it was not good to speak of demons, especially in a place like this. “Be silent, all of you. This talk helps us none.”
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“Forgive me, my lord,” the woman said, ducking her head in deference. “We are close now. The camp is just beyond the clearing.”
​
The path dipped and widened into a great bowl, surrounded on either side by rocks and shadowy trees. Eddison clutched the hilt of his sword. Soon, they would be at Cynwrig’s camp; either the druid chieftain would be there, or they would lie in wait for his return. The knights would slay him, and Eddison could return to the King’s court, victorious once again. Perhaps the King would even refrain from relegating him to the training grounds for a few more years.
​
Wind whistled through the clearing. Eddison found it a strange sensation in the stale forest.
A choking gurgle sounded behind him, and the old knight realized in horror what was happening. “Cover!”
​
Slipping from his saddle, feeling the painful shock in his legs as they struck the ground, Eddison shielded himself behind his horse. He turned to the gurgling noise and saw his squire, still mounted, grasping his throat.
​
A feathered shaft protruding between blood-slicked fingers. The squire’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. He fell from his horse and lay still.
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Whistling filled the air as more arrows rained down on them. Men cried out. Horses screamed. Eddison dared a glance beyond his steed. Druid bandits poured from the trees like locusts, with bows and battle axes in hand. An arrow narrowly missed his head. Eddison and the other knights had walked into a trap.
​
At the edge of the bowl, where the clearing met the trees, the red-haired woman clambered up the ridge to join her folk. She looked back at the knights. Eddison could see her timid mask was gone. Her eyes were wild and eager, and she bared her teeth in a triumphant, wolf-like grin.
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The druid bandits were advancing. Soon, they would overtake Eddison and the others. The old knight stared into the black, gaping maw of the forest behind him. There was no other way. “Flee for your lives!”
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For a moment, the other knights looked at each other, wide-eyed. Then, they scattered. Each knight went his own way, fleeing from the forces of Cynwrig nipping at their heels, and plunged deeper into the forest.
~ I ~
Libidinosis Oculis, or
The Tale of Sir Landry
Sir Landry seemed a noble knight,
Handsome, strong, and spry.
But he destroyed the fortunes of a maiden fair,
By refusing to subdue his lustful eye.
Sir Landry stumbled through the grim woods, the sounds of the druid bandits fading behind him—he had evaded them, for now. He searched for anything that could give him some sense of direction, but the forest was not forthcoming. To Landry, each twisted tree and misshapen stone looked the same. Even the sky remained blotted out by the dark canopy above.
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Landry cursed. They had fallen into the bandits’ trap so easily. The druid woman had led them right to it. She had played the part of a sheep well, with her frightened and pretty face, concealing the wolf underneath. To think he had given thought to comforting her after Cynwrig had been slain.
​
Despite his predicament, Landry could hardly believe such a disaster could befall the Seven Knights. Now they were dispersed, and he was alone, trudging on foot through a labyrinth of dark and reticent forest.
​
The knight rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. He felt a modicum of comfort. He was still more than a match for any druid bandit who might cross his path. Press on, he told himself, no forest goes on forever.
​
A snapping branch broke the silence of the woods. Landry drew his sword, pointing it at the sound. He saw movement behind the trees.
​
“Brother knight?” Sir Landry said, and when there came no reply, he added, “Whoever you are, you’ve given yourself away. Reveal yourself.”
​
The knight could still catch glimpses of movement, but the gloom and clustered foliage prevented him from sizing up his foe.
​
“Come now, druid,” Landry said, guessing at the thing’s identity. “Would you care to challenge one of the Seven Knights? I’m sure it will earn you favor with old Cynwrig if you slay me. Reveal yourself, now, and face me like a man.”
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Finally, a figure emerged from a row of trees, and Sir Landry lowered his sword, utterly shocked.
*****
In days since past, a Trifling Noble on the outer reaches of the Kingdom held a tournament. The noble hoped the event would help him reclaim the luster that had long since faded from his family’s name. The attendance of the tourney exceeded all expectations and attracted a number of skilled competitors eager to prove their worth.
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Landry, young and newly knighted, was one such contestant. He himself belonged to a noble house—one still well-regarded in the court of the King. The boy had shown an aptitude for swordplay in his early years, though he was also known for his familiarity with a number of the household’s serving girls.
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It was not his way at first. In his fifteenth year, Landry fell in love with a comely scullery maid who was a match for him in age, if not in status. It mattered little to Landry, and he resolved himself that they would be wed.
​
But his father would not abide this young romance. The girl was promptly sent away.
​
The young Landry was devastated. He vowed never again to let his heart be wounded in such a way. In time, he grew more striking in looks and cleverer in wit and became acquainted with other young women. Through it all, he kept his heart at a distance—lest anyone else be taken from him.
​
When he came of age, he had been taken into service as a squire for one of the King’s knights. The man who had taken Landry into his service did little to dissuade the boy’s dalliances—in fact, he seemed amused by it. The knight had his own cursory romances, though he had a bride and three children who awaited him at home.
​
Still, Landry considered the knight a good master—a brave man who was quick with a jest and generous with his instruction—and had loved him dearly. The boy’s heart had been broken for the second time when the knight had been slain, felled by a brigand on the banks of a roiling river. Landry pursued the brigand and avenged his master. The King had seen fit to make him a knight after that.
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And so, the newly minted Sir Landry, keen to validate the King’s judgement and honor his fallen master, entered the Trifling Noble’s tourney. He did not win, but acquitted himself well despite his youth, and his dashing appearance and deftness with a blade won him many admirers—including the daughter of his host.
​
She was lovely, raven-haired and with skin as spotless as snow. Though younger than Landry, she was already betrothed to a neighboring nobleman of some prominence. In the Trifling Noble’s mind, considering his daughter’s engagement and the success of the tournament, the prestige of his house was on the cusp of restoration.
​
But it was not to be.
​
Landry seduced the noble’s daughter while at the tourney, doing as he had always done. He used charm and lovely words, all while his heart remained safely distant. When the girl told him she loved him, he responded in kind, though his words were nothing more than an empty vessel.
​
When the tournament ended, so did his interest in their tryst. He feigned torment, telling her he could not abandon his knightly duties, not even for love, and must leave her. And so, Landry returned to his post, forgetting the Trifling Noble and his daughter.
​
He was surprised then, after five months had passed, to see them in the King’s court. His astonishment doubled when he realized the girl was with child.
​
The Trifling Noble raged before the King, accusing Landry of sullying his daughter and destroying her previous betrothal. He demanded that Landry marry her in recompense. The King asked Landry if the noble’s claims were true.
​
“No, sire,” Sir Landry lied. “I never knew her.”
​
The girl had looked at him, desperate and confused, as she and her father were dragged away. Landry felt little; it was simply another girl who was being sent away.
​
The Trifling Noble’s house fell into ruin not long after. He died, destitute, and Landry was unaware of what happened to the girl and her child. But the knight soon put them out of his mind, his heart safely hidden so far away that even he could not say where it might be found.
*****
A woman stood before Sir Landry.
​
Her hair was black as a night without stars, and it grew long, long enough to reach her waist and cover her back. But that was the only part of her that was covered. Her pale, exposed skin seemed to glow, illuminating the dark wood around her.
​
She looked over a bare shoulder, fixing her dark eyes upon the knight, and Landry felt that his very soul had been pierced. He could not say why, but she looked familiar. When she giggled and turned away, he followed after her.
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Landry tried to call out, but the words caught in his throat. His heart thudded heavily in his chest. He quickened his pace, trying to catch up to the woman, but she remained just out of arm’s reach. Still, she looked back at him often and seemed pleased by his pursuit.
​
More sultry laughter echoed through the forest, and Landry watched as another woman, also naked and crowned with golden hair, joined the first. They slid their arms about each other’s waists as they walked, speaking in hushed whispers and stealing glances at the spellbound knight.
​
The forest air grew light and less stale. More than that, it had become sweet and smelled of fragrant berries. The path grew wider; the trees, no longer black and gnarled but lush and green, opened to welcome the two maidens and the knight who followed them.
​
Sir Landry could hardly believe his eyes. Encircled in the trees, there was a green meadow and, in its center, a bed of many-colored flowers. As the knight stepped into the meadow, his feet felt cool, an unexpected but pleasant sensation.
​
The women reached the bed of flowers and turned toward the knight, beckoning him to join them. Landry’s heart began pounding even more violently in his chest. Yes, he thought, it was good that he had come to this place. He would enjoy this unexpected circumstance and then, surely, his new friends would show him the way out of the woods.
​
Not that he should leave so soon, but it would be good to know.
​
Landry strode through the meadow, the pleasant coolness rising up his body until it reached just above the knee. He unbuckled his sword belt and allowed it to slip to the ground. When he reached the women, he put an arm around each of their supple figures. They smiled at him, dark eyes eager under long lashes.
​
Yes, it was very good that he had come here, the knight concluded. He lowered himself onto the bed of flowers, feeling pleasant coolness take his entire body as the women fell to either side of him.
​
Their soft hands played about his chest. The knight waited for them to unclasp his cloak and tunic, but their hands remained fixed above his breast. Landry decided he would undo the clothing himself, but when he tried to raise up from the bed of flowers, the women restrained him. He gave them a curious look. Their eyes were still hungry, but now contained a glint more sinister than sensuous.
​
Sir Landry fought against their grip. The women held him in place with surprising strength. The coolness that had seemed so pleasant to him only a moment before was now growing unbearably cold. And wet.
​
The knight opened his mouth to cry out, but water rushed in instead.
​
The spell was broken. The visage of the beautiful women melted away. In their place was a grotesque, sallow creature. It had the appearance of two gaunt, rotting women conjoined at the shoulder. The two heads smiled down at Landry, baring crooked and missing teeth, as it held him firm under a shallow pool.
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Sir Landry’s heart beat harder than ever as he tried to break free from the monster that was drowning him. But each movement grew weaker than the last as his remaining breath died away.
​
The knight made one last effort, trying to force his head above the water’s surface—so agonizingly close—but to no avail.
​
He could fight it no longer. Water forced itself down his throat and into his lungs. With the demon looking down on him with cruel pleasure, Sir Landry’s body slackened, and his eyes fell dark.
~ II ~
Esuriens Venter, or
The Tale of Sir Glendan
Sir Glendan was a famished man,
Who lived to drink and feed.
A village came to ruin striving
To sate this gourmand’s need.
The druid warrior circled Sir Glendan, his half-axe hungering for the knight’s blood. Glendan gripped his sword, keeping the point directed at his adversary’s chest. When the druid screamed and charged, the knight waited for his opening.
​
Closing the distance between them, the bandit raised his axe high and brought it down toward Sir Glendan’s skull. The knight hopped aside, a deft move for a man of his girth, and swung his blade upward, catching the druid’s arm at the elbow.
​
Severed clean, the arm whipped wildly through the air, still clutching its weapon. When the axe blade buried itself into a nearby tree, the uncoupled limb still held fast to its handle, swinging idly like a ghoulish ornament.
​
The druid’s mouth gaped as he looked at the bloody stump where his forearm had been mere moments before. With another thrust of his sword, Sir Glendan ended the man’s life.
​
His foe vanquished, Glendan took stock of the surrounding murk and wondered how he was to find his fellow knights and escape the forest. His contemplation was interrupted by a nearby cry. He recognized the voice.
It belonged to his brother.
​
Glendan hurried toward the clamor and found Sir Stuart locked in combat with another druid bandit. The druid was atop his brother, pushing Stuart’s head into the mud where they battled, trying to drown him in it.
​
With an agility that would have surprised those who did not know him, Sir Glendan rushed forward and brought his blade to bear on his brother’s assailant. He plunged the sword between the man’s shoulder before the druid even knew he was there. The bandit’s cries were soon followed by a wet gurgle. Then silence. Tossing the body aside, Sir Glendan helped his brother to his feet.
​
“Many thanks, brother,” said Sir Stuart, exhaling. Half his head was covered in dark, dripping mud.
​
“Come along,” said Sir Glendan. “We must continue moving.”
​
“Could we not wait a moment?” his brother said, sucking in great, forceful breaths. “I am weary.”
​
More than the fatigue that bit at his sinews, Glendan felt the pangs of hunger in his gut. He had been stuck in this barren forest for hours with nothing to eat, nothing to restore his strength. But the knight knew if they delayed now, their chances of escaping this dreadful place would diminish greatly. After all, Cynwrig’s warriors still pursued them. “We must move, brother. Let us travel on for a while, then we may rest.”
​
Grabbing Stuart by the arm, the knight dragged his brother onward into the gloom.
*****
Glendan was born into a wealthy house and enjoyed a homely life with few demands. It was a reflection of the persistent wealth that had endured in his family for generations. While his parents’ riches had bought them favor in the King’s court, they were not politic, content to enjoy a facile life unburdened by expectations.
​
Every child rebels against their parents in some way, and Glendan’s insurrection was to reject his family’s apathy, at least in part. His parents had nearly fallen into a stupor when their son declared, on the eve of his sixteenth year, that he wished to become a knight—a desire cultivated through Glendan’s love for romantic tales of chivalry and adventure.
​
Despite their consternation, Glendan’s parents were not in the habit of denying their children. With their substantial resources, and at their son’s insistence, they employed the best drill instructor in the Kingdom.
​
Glendan’s comfortable life did not avail him of the naivete of his request, nor the hardship he would endure at the hands of his Tutor.
​
Grim and grizzled, the Tutor had once served the King, instructing knights of the highest order for many years. A whisker shy of cruel, the old instructor did not see the need to adapt his methods nor his disposition for the coddled, doughy boy who had requested his services.
​
What followed were the most punishing years of Glendan’s life.
​
The Tutor showered the boy with abuse, often making the lad a spectacle to those working in the yard. Glendan grew accustomed to the hot feeling behind his face whenever his instructor would pepper him with insults as an archer would arrows. Many a time, Glendan would trudge from the drill yard to his bed, body aching and tears streaking his face, and swear that he had completed his last training session with the hateful old man. But, without fail, the boy would rise early the next morning for a fresh day of tutelage.
​
Slowly, Glendan’s spongy arms became firm. His shoulders spread wide. Hands grew callous and strong, as comfortable handling a sword as a quill.
​
Glendan had transformed himself, but if there was one vestige of his lavish younger life, it was his love of food and drink. Often, the feast that awaited him at his father’s table was the only solace the boy had after a grueling day of training. Glendan’s mother, doting as ever, made certain that the boy had all he could eat or drink, and the kitchen staff grew accustomed to preparing extra meals for the boy, even in the middle of the night.
​
This caused Glendan’s wide middle to remain, a fact the Tutor harped on mercilessly. But the young lad was not willing to surrender this last indulgence. As he saw it, he was victorious in pressing on with his training. And every victory deserved its reward.
​
The shape of his body soon became trivial in light of his other advances. His size and newfound strength belied a fleetness of foot that surprised even his instructor. The Tutor took to calling Glendan a “dancing bear,” and the words were spoken with such unforeseen affection that the boy was nearly reduced to tears—though of a much different kind than before.
​
Glendan had won his mentor’s respect—a herculean task—and his ensuing service as a squire for a knight of the King’s court was painless by comparison. Glendan served well, his skill undeniable. After a few more years, the King dubbed him a full-fledged knight and took him into his service.
​
Sir Glendan reveled in the life of a knight—it was all he had dreamed and more. He was respected by his brother knights and feared by his adversaries. His days were filled with adventure, camaraderie, and making merry.
​
And the King’s feasts were exquisite.
​
One day, many years after becoming a knight, Glendan and his brother, Stuart—himself new to knighthood—were returning from a skirmish on the far reaches of the Kingdom. A town had revolted against the King and had seized several nearby villages in their bid for independence. Glendan and Stuart had been dispatched with a company of soldiers and had quelled the rebellion in short order.
​
Though victorious, they were famished, and the long trek back to the King’s castle seemed more daunting than anything they had yet faced. In response, Glendan led his company to one of the nearby villages, which had been an unwilling participant in the revolt.
​
The knight met with an Elder of the village and requested their hospitality. The old man had looked dubiously at the long column of soldiers stretching behind the knight. He knew what Glendan was asking of him.
​
“My lord,” said the Elder. “We are but a small village and have little to give.”
​
Sir Glendan was incensed. “This is the gratitude we receive for overthrowing your oppressors—to be turned away like beggars in the street?”
​
“Apologies, my lord knight,” the Elder said, bowing low. “We cannot honor you as you deserve.”
​
Glendan had pointed to the stony, cylindrical structures in the center of the village. “And what of your storehouses? Surely you have set aside the bounty of your harvest.”
​
“You speak the truth, sir. But it has been stored to help us through the winter.”
​
“The winters are mild here, are they not?” said Sir Glendan. “And there is still time yet to gather more. Do not let your excess of caution bring shame upon your village.”
​
For a long moment, the Elder had looked at him with pleading, watery eyes. Then, he nodded. “As you wish, my lord.”
​
The village set about their preparations, and Glendan was well pleased. He and his men had claimed the victory and, as such, deserved their reward. The feast that evening was unremarkable, but the knight and his soldiers went to bed with bellies full of food and drink. Sir Glendan and his retinue rose early the next morning and began their journey back to the King and his court.
​
A harsh winter followed that year. The village, now with near-empty storehouses and a middling late-season crop, was ill-prepared for this misfortune. Those who were able traveled to other villages and towns, begging for food. Some survived. Many more starved. This dire news did not reach the King’s court. It was simply the suffering of a poor, downtrodden village—a tale too often told to be of note.
​
Certainly, Sir Glendan gave little thought to the village or its people. The man who had never known want had taken what remained from those who had little, because his stomach refused to relinquish its reward.
*****
Glendan moved through the forest’s twisted maze, urging his younger brother onward. Two squires followed them. They had stumbled upon the boys along their path. The knight hadn’t recognized their names, but he thought they looked familiar.
​
“We must rest, brother,” said Sir Stuart. “The sounds of battle have died away, and I fear I cannot take another step.”
​
Glendan had to admit his brother was right. The din of distant fighting had died away, replaced by the droning of insects. “Very well.”
​
Stuart leaned against a fallen tree and sighed. “We should have never left the soldiers. I said as much. If you had only listened to me, we wouldn’t be in this plight.”
​
“I wasn’t the only knight who wanted to search apart from the spearmen,” said Sir Glendan, piqued. “And if you had your way, Cynwrig would die of old age before we so much as darkened his halls.”
​
When Stuart opened his mouth to reply, Glendan held up a hand. “Hold your tongue. Your whingeing hurts my head, and I must think if we are to find a way out of this place. We cannot tarry here much longer.”
​
“But we’ve only just arrived,” said one of the squires—a rotund, red-faced boy.
​
Sir Glendan strode forward and slapped the squire across the face, leaving a stinging mark on the lad’s scarlet cheek. “I will abide Sir Stuart’s grousing, as he is my brother by knighthood and by blood. But I will not hear it from a fat little squire who knows not his place, nor discipline.”
​
The plump boy held his hand to his face while tears formed in his eyes. The other squire, high-cheeked and thin as a rail, looked at his peer with disdain.
​
“The boy has a point, Glendan,” said Stuart. “A respite is needed. What good is it to escape the sword only to be felled by exhaustion? See, this place is hidden, and we will not be found out. A short rest now will give us the strength to carry on later.”
​
Glendan could not bear his brother’s lethargy any longer. “If you wish to wait for Cynwrig’s horde to catch up to you, so be it. But I will not dally.”
​
Stuart’s eyes widened. “Glendan, you must see reason—”
​
“Farewell, brother.”
​
With that, Sir Glendan resumed trudging through the forest. Soon enough, he heard footfalls behind him and turned, hoping that Stuart had regained his senses. But it was only the sapling-thin squire who approached him.
​
“May I accompany you, my lord?” the squire said.
​
Glendan nodded. The squire had a satchel slung over his shoulder, which the knight hadn’t noticed before. “What do you carry?”
​
The squire looked shamefaced and opened the bag. “Supplies, sir. Mostly food. I was able to grab it before fleeing into the woods. I didn’t offer anything to your brother or the fat squire before I left to follow you. Should we return and give them half?”
​
Sir Glendan’s stomach grumbled, his hunger awakening once more. He examined the fare resting inside the satchel—salted meats, fruits, and bread. A veritable feast in this godforsaken forest.
​
“No,” said the knight, taking the bag from the thin boy. “We are the ones on the move, so we are the ones in need of nourishment.”
​
The pair walked on, Glendan drawing food from the rucksack as his belly bid. But nothing he ate seemed to fill him. Soon his hand found nothing left in the satchel. His hunger grew, and so did his embarrassment. He had eaten all the food without offering a single thing to the skinny squire plodding behind him.
​
“I’m not hungry, sir,” the squire said, as if reading his thoughts. “I ate my fill from the bag before running into you.”
​
The knight gave the boy a grateful look. “You’re a good lad. By my oath, I will see you safely out of this dreadful forest.”
​
Sir Glendan led them up and over a ridge lined with hedges a full head taller than the knight. Surely, he thought to himself, they would see some sign, something to find their way out of these woods.
​
As the knight pushed through the hedges, he was shocked to discover a small clearing, surrounded by trees, and lit with a warm glow. In its center was a burnished redwood table, as finely crafted as the King’s own, upon which lay a feast the likes of which Sir Glendan had never seen. Roast chicken with parsley and potatoes. Smoked mutton and fresh vegetables. Jellies and custards dyed vividly with sandalwood and saffron. Pies and fritters and stews, immaculate and untouched. And, at the end of the table, a great barrel of ale. An empty, expectant cup rested on its edge.
​
“Cynwrig’s feast,” said the lance-thin squire.
​
“So it seems,” Glendan said, licking his lips. “We should keep moving.”
​
“But my lord, what better way to shame the druid king than to eat the very food from his table?” said the boy, an eager grin spreading across his face.
​
The knight looked again at the banquet laid before him. His stomach growled and ached. Yes, he thought, what would it hurt? He had eluded Cynwrig’s men thus far, and that was a victory of sorts. And, he reminded himself, every victory deserved its reward.
​
Glendan began to eat. His eyes watered—it was the most delicious food he had ever tasted, and each cuisine was more delectable than the last. He dipped himself a cup of ale, downing the sweet, spicy drift in a single gulp. He attacked the feast like a ravenous wolf, emptying dishes and gobbling up the little treats scattered around the table. The food filled him but, somehow, he always had room for more.
​
As his teeth tore tender meat from bone, he noticed the slender squire standing at the edge of the table, watching him. The boy’s hands were clasped, and he wore a broad smile. Something was different about the squire—he was no longer so skinny. The boy’s arms and legs were still little more than skin and bone, but his belly sunk and spread wide. And his smile—it was wide, too wide, stretching ear-to-ear.
​
This grotesque appearance turned Glendan’s stomach, and he stopped eating. The squire’s lips peeled back, revealing rows of small, dagger-sharp teeth. The knight looked back at the banquet. The table was gone. So, too, was the cornucopia of rich food and drink.
​
In his hands, and all around him, were mushrooms. Their moldy blue-brown caps stared up at him, many half-eaten and discarded. The knight felt a sudden, stabbing pain, like that of a knife, come from within his belly. He sank to his knees and gasped for air. Each breath was more difficult than the last. Spots danced in his vision, and he retched.
​
Sir Glendan fell to the ground and lay still, yellow sick leaking from his gaping mouth.
~ III ~
Avarus Manus, or
The Tale of Sir Allard
Sir Allard thought himself a canny man,
And hungered after gold.
But no sum of money could quell his greed,
Though a righteous man be lost in the cold.
The sound of pursuing footfalls rang in Sir Allard’s ears. The knight ran, each stride uncertain amidst the forest’s treacherous footing, not knowing where he was running to but only what he was fleeing from.
​
The druid bandit was close now. Allard could hear his pursuer’s ragged breaths. The knight knew he could not outrun him, not in these woods. He would have to stand and fight.
​
Allard’s hand found the hilt of his blade as he ran. He was just pulling the sword from its scabbard when he felt a sharp tug at his shoulder. The druid had grabbed hold of his cloak. Allard’s fingers searched desperately for the clasp above his breast when his foot caught a tree root. The root did not yield, and the knight soon found himself tumbling helplessly to the dirt.
​
He landed awkwardly, his chin striking the ground, and Sir Allard tasted blood in his mouth. His pursuer, surprised at the knight’s sudden fall, stumbled past, losing his grip on Allard’s crimson cape. The druid slipped atop a small patch of mossy mire just ahead of the knight but managed to keep his footing. He turned to face Allard, a vicious looking cleaver in hand.
​
In the short time it took for Sir Allard to scramble to his feet, the druid seemed to shrink. The knight and the druid looked at each other, confused, before realization dawned: Allard’s adversary was not shrinking. He was sinking. Air bubbled and burst from the swampy basin under the druid bandit and, suddenly, his whole lower half was gone, swallowed up by the mud.
​
The druid’s eyes went wide, and he began to scream in a harsh, unintelligible tongue. The knight considered leaving his adversary to his fate, but Allard did not want the man’s cries to attract attention. With a swift stroke of his sword, the knight silenced him. Blood mixed in with the mire as the druid’s now lifeless body continued to sink into the earth.
​
Sir Allard rested on a nearby stump and acknowledged his luck. If he had not stumbled, it would have been him sinking to his doom. The feeling of good fortune quickly soured, however, when he took stock of the baleful woods surrounding him.
​
How was he going to escape this place?
​
A flicker of movement caught his eye, and again Allard’s hand gripped his sword. Something emerged from the reeds surrounding the sinking pool—a glob of green, striped with brown.
​
A toad.
​
The knight scoffed and thrust the blade back into its sheath. The little animal looked at Allard with glistening, protuberant eyes. It hopped along the mire, unafraid of sinking, and perched on the dead druid’s head. The toad continued to look at the knight, unblinking.
​
“And what do you want?” said Allard, feeling foolish to have even addressed the empty-headed amphibian.
​
The toad croaked and said, “Only to wish you glad tidings, Sir Knight.”
*****
Allard was ten years old when his father, a wealthy merchant, had died. His father had been walking the ramparts of his modest estate when a stone gave way. The fall would claim his life, but not immediately. Allard’s father lingered for ten days before finally passing on.
​
The funeral was well attended. Though the boy and his widowed mother received a flood of condolences, only one man—a Purveyor of goods, his father’s business partner—offered to aid them in the midst of their misfortune.
​
Even as a child, Allard had taken notice of the man’s appearance. He had thin, dexterous fingers, often steepled under sharp eyes, and a nose that seemed too small for his already petite face. The Purveyor promised to care for the widow and her child, and in the subsequent weeks, he would consult with Allard’s mother over investments, proposals, and other ways to maintain the moderate fortune left to her by her husband.
​
The widow trusted the Purveyor without question, and when the man had finished defrauding her, he vanished with his ill-gotten gain, never to be seen again. Allard and his mother were left with little more than two copper coins to rub together. Within a fortnight, the boy and his mother went from their comfortable estate to begging in the gutter.
​
Allard never blamed his mother for what happened, even as they scrounged for food and shelter. In truth, he blamed his father for dying, and for associating with such a man as the Purveyor in the first place. But the boy’s mother was hardened by her experience, and would often tell her son, “Always keep your coppers in hand.” The woman repeated the mantra daily, though she never had much to hold onto.
​
In the summer of Allard’s fourteenth year, his mother took ill. The boy had worked tirelessly, taking on any job he could find, but despite his efforts, he was unable to afford a physician. His mother wasted away for ten days, just as his father had—though in more woeful surroundings—before she died. The last words she choked out were to remind her son to “always keep your coppers in hand.”
​
Following his mother’s death, Allard had taken up petty theft to feed himself. He was quick-witted and nimble, and he had a measure of success. But impatience with his poverty led him to riskier schemes. Finally, he was caught stealing from the very coffers of the Church.
​
The man who apprehended Allard was the captain of the Town’s Watch. The captain saw potential in young Allard and, instead of punishing the boy, brought him into his home. For years, Allard trained alongside the soldiers of the Town’s Watch, growing in stature and skill until he outstripped his peers. Eventually, the captain recommended his young ward for squire service. In the years that followed, Allard would prove himself both intrepid and cunning, and be made a knight in the King’s service.
​
Sir Allard had traveled from wealth to destitution and back again. But ever emblazoned on his heart were the words of his dying mother, and the knight clung desperately to any coin he was given.
​
He came to resent the carelessness of his fellow knights, who spent their wages on frivolous things. They had not known strife as he had; they did not know how quickly wealth and favor could wilt away, like wildflowers under the scorching scrutiny of the sun.
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In time, even the riches he had earned did not give Allard peace. The knight could always conjure a scenario in his mind wherein his wealth was lost, and he was cast back into squalor. Allard eschewed fathering children, for fear that his own death, when it came, would consign his progeny to the same dire straits he had endured. The only thing that gave him respite was continuing to construct for himself a gilded shield against potential poverty and ruin.
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In his quest to fortify his bastion of riches, he returned to a scheme from his youth. Allard turned his eyes, once again, to the Church’s offertory.
The money collected was intended to ease the suffering of the destitute, but Allard scoffed at the thought. “Are those who will receive this money truly poor?” he said to himself. “Many are rich compared to my impoverished youth. What hurt be given by lightening the coffers by some small measure?”
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And so, Sir Allard secretly siphoned money from the Church to add to his wealth—a little at first, but more and more as the years passed.
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Eventually, a fell winter passed over the Kingdom, and the Priest of the Church redoubled his efforts, going throughout the city asking for aid to keep the poor clothed and fed during the fierce wintertide. But the more the Priest collected, the more Sir Allard took for himself.
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Finally, with the offertory exhausted in support of those in need—and the knight’s avarice—the Priest gave the remainder of himself, clothing the impoverished with what warm garments he had left. In the depths of winter, the holy man froze to death while Sir Allard remained warm in the halls of the King, his coin close in hand.
*****
Sir Allard’s eyes were as bulbous as those of the toad who had spoken to him. “You speak, little croaker?”
​
“Indeed, noble knight,” said the toad, still resting atop the sinking druid. “I am at your service.” At these words, the toad dipped his head in an odd little bow.
​
Allard blinked rapidly, trying to clear away this strange vision. But the toad remained and stared at him with glinting, golden eyes. The knight knew that strange magic worked its way through these woods, but this was not what he had expected. This was something from a children’s tale.
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“Are you well, Sir Allard?” said the toad, cocking its head.
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Allard lifted himself from the stump and cleared his dry throat. “At the moment, it is difficult to say. Good day.”
​
As the knight moved away from the marshy, sinking pit, the toad called out after him. “You are leaving this place?”
​
“Yes.”
​
“Do you know the way out?”
​
Allard turned back to the toad, who leapt from the dead man’s head just as the last strands of hair were sucked beneath the mire. “Do you, little croaker?”
​
“This is my home,” said the toad. “I know it well.”
​
“You would help me?”
​
The toad gave another nod; an oddly human gesture from a creature that was anything but. “Of course, good knight. Gladly will I aid an enemy of Cynwrig. Follow me.”
​
Allard watched as the toad hopped around the marsh and through the trees. After a moment of hesitation, the knight followed.
​
They traveled for some time. Sir Allard imagined it made for a comical sight: a knight hurrying through the forest after a toad. But this was no ordinary toad, Allard reminded himself, and he had no other means of escaping the forest.
​
The toad proved to be an expert guide, leading along unlikely paths that, while daunting in appearance, provided secure footing and few obstacles. The air became lighter and fresher, his surroundings less labyrinthine.
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Allard’s mind soon wandered from his steps, and instead turned to another worry—facing the King upon his return. The knights, all seven of them, had failed in their task, and failed miserably. And unlike some of the others, Allard did not have the excuse of youth or inexperience. The brunt of blame would fall upon his shoulders, particularly if old Sir Eddison was slain.
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The knight grimaced, imagining the King’s anger. Would Allard be cast out of the court as punishment? A visceral panic clawed at his heart. If so, how long would his coin last before he fell back into squalor?
​
“We’re almost there, Sir Knight,” said the toad, hopping along and heedless of the knight’s distress.
​
The words rang true, for Allard could see the dazzlingly white glow of daylight framing the trees ahead. But something else caught his eye. “Wait, little croaker. I’ve caught sight of something.”
​
The toad halted and turned its bloated eyes upon him. Allard stared past the trees. Not towards the light of day, but another light—one much more alluring. Beyond a cluster of entangled trees shone a soft, golden glow. The knight made his way toward it, the toad springing after him.
​
Allard pushed his way through brush and bramble and the glow increased, bestowing the forest with a delicate sheen. Pushing aside a low-hanging branch, he stepped to the edge of a circular clearing and found his wildest imaginings made manifest.
​
The entire glade was blanketed with treasure. Resplendent goblets and twinkling jewelry lazed in a pool of gold and silver coins so deep that it seemed to Allard that he could swim in it. He had never known so great a fortune. The knight gawked at the glittering trove.
​
The toad croaked beside him, snapping Allard from his trance. “How can this be, little croaker? This is a king’s fortune.”
​
“‘Tis Cynwrig’s treasure,” said the toad, the dark stripes on its body seeming to shift. “That which he stole from those in need.”
​
Without a word, Allard dipped a hand into the golden horde and produced a small mound of glinting coinage. Any fear the knight still felt in facing his King melted away as he ogled the treasure. The knight could purchase his own kingdom with these riches, with still more to spare. He would never have to fear a return to the gutter.
​
Sir Allard laughed and waded into the treasure, so deep it came up to his knees. The toad bounded alongside him, resting lightly on a bejeweled chalice.
​
“I shall ease Cynwrig from the burden of his riches,” said the knight, and gleefully splashed in the twinkling trove. He filled his tunic with treasures, and the more he seized, the deeper the gold became, nearly reaching his waist. Allard laughed again. Somehow, he had underestimated the amount of wealth hoarded here—wealth that would all be his.
​
Once the knight felt that he had fixed himself with all he could carry, he moved toward the edge of the golden glade. But his legs were slow and, eventually, he could not move them at all. He was startled to see that the treasure was growing still, now rising up his chest.
​
In horror, Allard realized he was sinking. He struggled against the force that pulled him downward and heard the squelching sound of mud. When he looked down, there were no longer any riches; just swampy, sinking earth that consumed him. The knight sought to slow his descent and lighten himself, and when he reached into his tunic to remove the treasures he had burdened himself with, he found nothing but heavy stones. He opened his hand and saw, in place of the mound of golden pieces he had collected, two measly copper coins.
​
The toad croaked from atop its perch, no longer a goblet, but a cracked and withering root. It looked at him with eyes that glittered like gold.
​
“Help me!” said Sir Allard, continuing to sink. The toad looked at him, dumbly, and did not answer.
​
The knight screamed for aid until his throat could no longer make a sound. Finally, he was pulled to his doom. Soon, the only thing that remained above the marshy mire was Sir Allard’s cold hand, tightly clutching the coppers within.
~ IV ~
Piger Pedes, or
The Tale of Sir Stuart
A diligent spirit and tireless will,
These things Sir Stuart lacked.
An innocent woman would come to harm,
Through his dogged refusal to act.
Sir Stuart cried out as the druid brought his full weight down on him, pinning the knight on the muddy ground. Stuart struggled, but the bandit pressed a hand to his face, shoving it deeper into the mire. The knight tried to breathe, but muck quickly filled his mouth and nostrils.
​
Stuart feared that this would be his end.
​
Suddenly, the druid’s hand went slack and slipped away. The knight heard a cry that terminated in a wet, choking sound. Clearing his eyes of the mire, Stuart was shocked to see the point of a sword protruding from his assailant’s chest. Blood poured from the blade and spattered Stuart’s tunic.
​
The dead druid was pushed aside and crumpled to the ground in a heap. A knight stood above Stuart, a hand extended toward him, and he recognized his face.
​
Glendan.
“Many thanks, brother,” said Sir Stuart. His brother’s sword was stained with blood, both old and new, but he looked well. A much different state than his own, Stuart thought glumly, as mud slid down his face and clothes.
​
Glendan looked about, clearly listening for the approach of Cynwrig’s men. “Come along, Stuart. We must continue moving.”
​
“Could we not wait a moment? I am weary,” said Stuart, his body aching with pain and exertion.
​
His brother paused for a moment, catching his wind, and for a moment Stuart felt that Glendan would actually oblige his request. But soon enough, Glendan’s consideration was replaced with a determination steelier than the sword in his grip. “We must move, brother. Let us travel on for a while, then we may rest.”
​
Glendan grabbed Stuart by his arm and led him deeper into the forest.
*****
For much of his life, Stuart enjoyed the comforts afforded to him by his family’s wealth. He enjoyed good food and drink, certainly—though far less than his brother, Glendan, four years his elder—but, above all, he cherished the luxury of time. With it, he pursued many interests: poetry, philosophy, painting, and more, content to let his passion for each wax and wane as they would.
​
His father had only sired two sons but had twice that number of daughters. Stuart spent many days with his sisters, blissfully idle under the Yew Trees on his family’s estate. He cared for Glendan then, and was even grateful to him, for as little as his parents demanded of their eldest son, even less was expected of the younger.
​
That all changed when Glendan decided to become a knight. His brother had forced his parents to hire an instructor, in an effort to fulfill this fancy. The Tutor they eventually employed was as gray and vicious as a half-mad rodent. Stuart simply could not understand Glendan’s reasoning for putting himself through such abuse; many a night, he would fall asleep to the sound of his brother’s weeping in the next room. Stuart assumed Glendan would abandon his self-inflicted torment sooner or later, and turned his thoughts to new interests, such as sketching or studying the stars.
​
When Stuart turned sixteen, his parents summoned him to the great hall of their manor. Glendan was there, alongside his cruel Tutor. The weathered old man reported that Glendan had grown beyond his teaching and was ready to take the next step toward knighthood. Their parents had been so proud of Glendan, and Stuart, though surprised his brother had endured his loathsome instructor, was pleased as well.
​
What happened next came as a nasty shock. Stuart’s father requested that the Tutor remain and train his younger son, as he had Glendan. The old instructor accepted. Stuart was dumbfounded—this was nothing he agreed to or desired. Only too late did he realize what had happened. His parents, once content with their family’s comfortable complacency, had warmed to the idea of having a knight for a son. And why stop at one when you could have two?
​
Glendan, careless, had opened the floodgates of expectation, and Stuart would suffer for it.
​
His father and mother would not hear his complaints. They forced Stuart to train with the Tutor in a way they never had with their eldest son. Idle time, his cherished possession, bled away into hours of endless, exacting training. The Tutor was cruel, and he seemed to hate Stuart all the more for simply not being Glendan.
​
After several bitter years, the old Tutor finally died—his heart giving out while screaming obscenities at his unwilling pupil. Even still, Stuart’s reprieve came too late. Though the callous old man was dead, Glendan had achieved knighthood, and Stuart’s parents were determined that he would follow in his older brother’s footsteps.
​
And so, he had. Before long, Stuart was made a knight and brought into the King’s service alongside his brother. His life, it seemed, would ever be dictated by Glendan’s thoughtless whim—and Stuart hated him for it.
​
Soon after reaching knighthood, Stuart and Glendan quashed a revolt at the edges of the Kingdom. Afterwards, Glendan had badgered a nearby village into providing a feast for the victorious soldiers—his brother’s appetite for food and revelry had only grown in the intervening years. Stuart cared little for the banquet, but the town’s comforts were preferable to those of the road, and he had retired early to a warm bed.
​
That was when he had received a visit from the Stonemason’s Wife.
​
She was a woman of unremarkable features, save for the darkening bruise that blotted the side of her face. She showed Sir Stuart the remnants of other wounds—the work of her husband. She appealed to the knight’s honor and requested his help, even if only to speak to her husband on her behalf.
​
“It is not my place,” Sir Stuart had said. “It cannot be my concern.”
He had meant the words. The last thing he needed was to be drawn into a wearying confrontation on the fringes of the Kingdom. He was under no compulsion to render aid. Hadn’t he done enough for these people, who he had rescued from the rebels? Must he also resolve every tiresome domestic squabble?
​
The Stonemason’s Wife left him, choking back tears. Sir Stuart slept well that night.
​
The next morning, as Stuart left the village with his brother and their retinue of soldiers, a man had come alongside him.
​
“I must apologize to you, milord,” said the man. He had a hard look about him, with beady eyes and bulging arms forged by hard labor.
​
“What offense have you caused?” Sir Stuart replied, dreading the idea of being dragged into the affairs of yet another peasant.
​
The man shook his head. “Not I, but my wife. I understand she harried you last night with false claims.”
​
“So, you are the Stonemason.”
​
The Stonemason clenched his fists and his forearms rippled. “You are an honored guest of our village. She should not have pestered you in such a way, sir.”
​
“Quite so. Which is why I dismissed her,” Stuart said with a shrug. “Rest assured, I hold no ill will against you. Be on your way.”
​
“Very good, milord,” said the Stonemason, satisfied. “I will see to it that she never troubles anyone with this nonsense again.”
​
The Stonemason’s words were said with a resolute detachment that Sir Stuart found disquieting. But the knight said nothing, allowing his horse to carry him far away from the Stonemason and his wife.
*****
“We must rest, brother,” said Sir Stuart, weariness gnawing at his bones. “The sounds of battle have died away, and I fear I cannot take another step.”
​
Sir Glendan paused to consider the request. Stuart glanced at the two squires that they had found in the woods, one fat and the other thin. They seemed eager to stop as well. Finally, Glendan’s shoulders drooped.
“Very well.” With that, they each found places of rest in the small clearing.
“We should have never left the soldiers. I said as much,” said Stuart, leaning against a ruined tree. Fatigue unsheathed his long-seated resentment like a dagger, and Stuart could not help but add, “If you had only listened to me, we wouldn’t be in this plight.”
​
Glendan fixed him with a cross look. “I wasn’t the only knight who wanted to search apart from the spearmen. And if you had your way, Cynwrig would die of old age before we so much as darkened his halls.”
​
The rebuke stoked a fire in Stuart’s chest, but his brother cut him off before he could reply. “Hold your tongue,” Glendan said. “Your whingeing hurts my head, and I must think if we are to find a way out of this place. We cannot tarry here much longer.”
​
“But we’ve only just arrived,” said the fat little squire, which earned a forceful slap from Sir Glendan. Stuart noted that skill with a sword hadn’t been the only thing his brother had learned from his instructor.
​
“I will abide Sir Stuart’s grousing, as he is my brother by knighthood and by blood. But I will not hear it from a fat little squire who knows not his place, nor discipline,” said Glendan, and Stuart’s blood boiled further. It was as much a reprimand for him as the stout squire.
​
Stuart forced his voice to remain even. “The boy has a point, Glendan. A respite is needed. What good is it to escape the sword only to be felled by exhaustion? See, this place is hidden, and we will not be found out. A short rest now will give us the strength to carry on later.”
​
“If you wish to wait for Cynwrig’s horde to catch up to you, so be it,” Sir Glendan said. “But I will not dally.”
​
Stuart was taken aback. “Glendan, you must see reason—”
“Farewell, brother.” Glendan strode away, disappearing into the forest. A moment later, the thin squire hurried after him.
​
A wave of fear swept over him, and Stuart considered following after his elder brother.
​
“He is more likely to stumble into Cynwrig’s men than elude them,” said the rotund squire from his place beside Stuart.
​
The knight felt vindicated by the boy’s words. Yes, he was glad to see Glendan go. If his brother would not listen to reason, there was nothing Stuart could do for him. “Let it not be said that all knights are wiser than their squires. But I do not recognize your face, lad. Which knight do you serve?”
​
“You, milord,” said the squire. “At least, that would be my wish. I doubt my master survived Cynwrig’s ambush.”
​
The knight pondered this request. “A sensible knight deserves a sensible squire. Gladly do I accept you into my service.”
​
The boy’s flabby face brightened. “Thank you, sir. I will serve you well.”
​
“Good, good,” said Stuart, rubbing his temples. “Now, we must determine how best to escape this fearful place. We entered this wood with an army of spearmen; it would best to find our way back to them.”
​
The fat squire bowed. “If I may, sir. Your plan is wise, but you are weary. This very place saps strength from the bones. Rest, sir. Sleep, if you can. I will keep watch. When you awake, refreshed, you will no doubt lead us to the soldiers and safety.”
​
Again, Sir Stuart found the squire’s words exceedingly reasonable. He agreed eagerly and found a nearby bed of moss that made lying on the ground more bearable. As soon as he rested his head on the ground, his eyes began to blur, and he welcomed the sudden, peaceful rush of sleep.
​
Stuart did not wake when Cynwrig’s men found him. They crept silently toward the solitary, sleeping knight. When the first dagger pierced him, the knight cried out and kicked his legs frantically. But as subsequent blades punctured his body, Sir Stuart was encumbered by a weariness greater than any he had ever known. Warmth fled from his body. His arms and legs grew sluggish in their thrashing until, finally, they lay still in forever rest.
~ V ~
Iratus Caput, or
The Tale of Sir William
Sir William was a fearsome warrior,
Who proved his skill on the highest stage.
But those who slighted him, friend or foe,
Felt the fire of his intemperate rage.
Sir William’s furious bellow reverberated throughout the forest, more akin to a bear’s roar than the yell of a man. The druids who surrounded the knight—themselves ferocious in appearance with shaved heads and arcane tattoos streaking their bodies—could not help but quail at his shout.
​
The hulking knight gave another shout, and charged into the fray, swinging his broadsword in great, arcing strokes like a deadly pendulum. Many of Cynwrig’s men were cleaved by his might. The rest fled from Sir William’s rage.
​
The world grew silent around William. Perspiration streaked down his face and wet his beard, but strength still coursed through the knight’s sinews. Wiping the bloodied blade on the hem of his tunic, he stalked deeper into the woods, eager to face his next challenger.
*****
William was born to a blacksmith in the King’s Capital. He was the man’s only child, for his mother had been given to many miscarriages, a misfortune for which her husband never forgave her.
​
The Smithy had regarded his sole heir with little affection—a reminder of the much larger brood he felt was his due. William and his mother endured many callous beatings for trifling offenses, real or imagined, and drunken stupor was often the only thing that curbed the man’s violent spite.
​
William’s mother had little more fondness for her son than the Smithy. William reminded her too much of her husband, though the boy had never raised a hand against her. The likeness only increased as her son grew in strength and stature.
​
When his mother ran away in the summer of his thirteenth year, William did not miss her. The only thing the boy mourned was the loss of a diversion for his father’s wrath. He and the Smithy continued to live in mutual enmity until, finally, William’s strapping frame grew to rival his father’s.
​
One night, after a particularly cruel beating, the Smithy left his battered son to search for peace at the bottom of a pint glass. William followed. He lay in wait for his father, just outside the local tavern, stoking the fire of his fury into a murderous rage. When his father emerged from the tavern, drunk and teetering, William ambushed him and beat him to death. The murder was deemed the accidental outcome of a drunken brawl, and William was not suspected.
​
The boy continued smithing to keep himself fed but longed to break free from his father’s trade. He doubled his efforts in swordcraft and, when it was announced that the King would host a great melee, William saw his opportunity.
​
He entered the tournament but was nearly turned away on the day of the melee when a knight objected to his presence. The knight, who bore a curved falchion sword, made the case to the tourney organizers that a “baseborn blacksmith’s son had no right to degrade the King’s melee with his presence.” William’s anger flared, and he had to be restrained from attacking the knight then and there. Despite the knight’s opposition, William was admitted to the contest.
​
More than a hundred men stood before the King that day, each wielding a blunted weapon of their choosing for the melee. At the King’s command, the brawl ensued, and at the end of the chaos, standing amidst a sea of bruised and defeated combatants, only two remained: William and the Falchion Knight.
​
William channeled all of the flaming fury cultivated from his youth and brought his blade to bear upon the man who had insulted him. The sheer force of the Smithy’s son staggered the Falchion Knight and shattered his sword.
​
William’s opponent was beaten. But the Falchion Knight was proud and refused to yield to the man who had bested him. Blinded by rage, William brought his blunted blade down on the unarmed knight in a final, savage strike across the man’s breastplate. The Falchion Knight fell and did not rise. His eyes were gray and distant within his helm.
​
The royal physician would later declare that the force of William’s blow had simply stopped the knight’s heart from beating. In the wake of the contest, a young boy—the son of the Falchion Knight—ran onto the battleground, jostling the lifeless knight and weeping as his father remained stiff and still.
​
William had won the melee, and though some decried his killing blow of an unarmed man, the King had been intrigued by his ferocity. He offered William a place in his court as a knight, and the Smithy’s son accepted eagerly.
​
The newly christened Sir William would find a family in the brotherhood of the King’s knights, earning an endearment he had never known as a child—though all who knew him still feared his quick and consuming temper.
​
As for the fate of the Falchion Knight’s son, Sir William could not say. The boy had been lost in the crowd following his victory, and the knight soon put the lad out of his mind.
*****
Sir William swaggered through the trees, as anxious to feed his bloodlust as he was to escape the forest. Silence surrounded him, only broken by the summoning shouts that the knight would hurl into the gloom. But no enemy emerged. William’s unsated rage continued to grow.
​
A soft, low sound broke the hush of the forest, although William had to strain to hear it. In time, it grew louder, but only slightly. Someone was moaning. The knight hurried toward the sound, fearing to find one of his brother knights dying in the murk. He crested a ridge and looked down at the cause of the sound. It was neither a fellow knight, nor one of Cynwrig’s men.
​
The moaning creature that shambled along the bottom of the ridge was strange and small, no larger than a child. From head to toe, it looked to be encased in dried mud, with spidery cracks lining its malformed body. It limped along, as if injured.
​
“What is this?” said Sir William, as much to the creature as himself. The miserable thing looked up at him with eyes like dying coals, before turning to hobble away from the knight.
​
William recalled the words of the druid woman; she had spoken of demons prowling about these woods. Is that what this thing was? He scoffed at its weak appearance, fragile as a twig. He could not say why, but the impish creature set his blood to boiling. The mere sight of it brought to mind the grievances of his life, even those long past.
​
A moment before, the knight felt that the only thing to quell his anger would be to find Cynwrig and cleave the druid lord in two. Now, it seemed that this ill-formed creature was just as deserving of his animus.
​
Yelling at the top of his lungs, Sir William charged down the ridge. The mud creature tried to shamble away, but it could not escape the knight. William brought his blade down upon the creature, slicing away a piece of hardened muck. The creature shrieked in pain.
​
William hacked at the creature, again and again, but with each layer of mud that he cut away, more seemed to remain. The knight would not be dissuaded, and the creature’s wails rose steadily in pitch.
​
Sweat beaded William’s brow as he continued his furious assault. Somehow, the creature seemed larger—almost the size of a man. The edges of its crusted lips turned upward in mockery of him.
​
The knight roared and swung his sword, freeing an arm from the creature’s body. In place of blood, sparking cinders spilled from the wound. The creature’s cries had become howling laughter, but Sir William’s wrath would not be bested. More limbs fell away. More wounds disgorged gouts of flame.
​
At last, William’s weary arms surrendered their attack, and the tip of his blade dug into the ground. The creature before him was no more, the ember light faded from its eyes. All that remained was a hewn and hollow husk.
​
Only then did the knight realize his peril. The creature had not been destroyed but transmuted. The burning slag that had emptied from the husk had set the forest alive with flame. William searched for an escape, but the living fire encircled him, and smoke choked his lungs.
​
The fire of rage that had burned inside Sir William was now extinguished, replaced by an icy dread. An evil, leering face appeared in the flame as it closed around him, laughing within the crackle of burning trees.
​
Sir William bowed his head, defeated, and was taken by the fire.
~ VI ~
Cor Invidiae, or
The Tale of Sir Eddison
A famous knight was Sir Eddison,
Though his youth had faded away.
Remembering a time that had since passed him by,
He yearned for those halcyon days.
The air was less stale here, Sir Eddison thought as he passed through the murk. He had been stumbling through the forest for hours. Now, he finally allowed himself the hope that he might escape.
​
Since the Seven Knights had been dispersed, Eddison had witnessed many strange things in the dark wood, dreams seen with the waking eye. Hobbling creatures, naked women, treasure troves, banquet tables, squires with strangers’ faces. The old knight had given each a wide berth.
​
Sir Percy had said this place was haunted. The druid woman had claimed demons lurked in the shadows. Eddison was now inclined to believe them both. If only he had possessed the good sense to prevent this ill fortune in the first place.
​
It was his fault that he and the other knights were in this predicament. He had been led into an ambush like some callow squireling. He should have known better than to trust the druid woman. The Seven Knights had been scattered, and now Eddison could only hope that his fellows’ prowess would preserve them.
​
“It is not only your body which has grown dull in old age,” Eddison chided himself bitterly. “But your wits as well.”
​
Before Sir Eddison had left with the other knights on their current quest, the King had spoken to him privately, questioning if he was too old to take on this mission.
​
“I’ve strength enough to slay this brigand for you, sire,” Eddison had proudly said, and the King had acquiesced to let him go. But the question had been valid, no matter how much Eddison might deny it. He was old for a knight, as his crown of graying hair attested, and he could feel age gnawing at his bones.
​
It wasn’t that Eddison feared the loss of the King’s favor—he knew his many years of faithful service guaranteed that he would be retained in some capacity. But he did fear becoming obsolete. A relic of the past whose remaining use would be little more than ornamentation.
​
And now, following this debacle, he knew it was all he deserved.
​
“Have we surrendered hope, at last?”
​
Sir Eddison drew his sword, steel singing as it was released from its scabbard. The old knight could already feel fatigue bite at his arm as he held the heavy blade aloft. “Who goes there?”
​
“Only us,” replied a voice, strangely familiar.
​
Eddison scoured his surroundings but could find the voice’s origin. “What do you want?”
​
“What you want, of course.”
*****
Sir Eddison was considered by many to be the greatest knight of his age and, possibly, of any age before. He rose from humble origins wielding honor and virtue as skillfully as his sword. As a young knight, he bested foe after foe on the battlefield, defending the King after the royal steed had been shot out from under him. He had led men onto the icy slopes of the Kingdom’s northern reaches and slayed a barbarian warlord, called the White Bear, in single combat. He had directed battles, quelled revolts, and won tourneys all with singular ability and grace.
​
But time is an enemy unconquered by mortal men. Slowly, Sir Eddison was attacked by this relentless, invisible foe. His hair turned silver, weathered lines cut deep into his face, and his body faltered.
​
At first, it mattered little. Even diminished, the aging knight possessed greater skill than many men could ever hope for in the prime of their youth. But inevitably, the years sapped more and more of his strength.
​
One spring, there was to be a joust for the King. The mighty Sir Eddison had won countless contests before. He felt certain he would win again. But when his young opponent unseated him in the joust’s opening round, the old knight could no longer deny that time had vanquished him.
​
He had accepted his defeat with the grace that befitted a valorous knight. Or so it seemed to those who bore witness. In truth, as he watched his opponent celebrate the victory—a lad who would have been no match for him in his youth—a bitter envy kindled in Sir Eddison’s heart.
*****
Sir Eddison followed the familiar, beckoning voice. He continued to hold his sword at the ready, but he could not deny the curiosity that was stirred within him.
​
The trees in this part of the forest were old and proud. Delicate emerald moss cloaked their weathered trunks. The lichen also extended across the ground, covering dirt and stone, and Eddison had to take care not to slip and break his neck.
​
“Keep going. We’re almost there,” said the disembodied voice.
​
The knight found himself standing at the summit of what looked like an ancient amphitheater. Stone-carved steps stretched out before him like a crescent moon, descending into the earth and terminating in front of an organic, moss-coated archway. In the hollow of the arch was a sheet of continuous, cascading water.
​
The old knight descended the slippery steps cautiously, until he stood at the bottom of the amphitheater. He approached the wall of water. It acted as a mirror of sorts, and Eddison could see his reflection staring back at him within the flow.
​
“This is it."
​
Sir Eddison froze. His voice had spoken the words, but they had not come from him. He looked at himself in the watery mirror. His reflection nodded on its own.
​
The old knight forced down a lump in his throat. “What is this devilry?”
​
“What you want,” the reflection replied. “What we want.”
​
“And what are you?”
​
“We are us. One in the same.”
​
Eddison reached out a hand to touch the cascade. Cool water pooled in his hands and ran between his fingers.
​
“Drink,” said his reflection.
​
Sir Eddison pulled his hand from the water suddenly. “Why?”
​
“These waters are powerful. They will restore our faded youth.”
​
The old knight was dumbstruck. Could it be true? Could these waters really help him reclaim his dwindling glory? He would do almost anything to return to his younger days. And yet…
​
“I shouldn’t,” said the old knight.
​
His reflection grimaced and flickered in the water. “But we could be young again. We could continue to serve the King. Who better to protect him, who better to lead the Seven Knights, than his greatest servant, renewed?”
​
Eddison shook his head. “It’s not natural.”
​
“It is a gift given to one who is worthy,” his reflection said, voice wavering. “Reclaim your strength. Do it to save the knights in your care, before they are lost to this evil wood.”
​
“No. It is not right,” said Sir Eddison, and turned away from the mirror with all the dignity he could muster. “I should be thankful for the God-given years that I have had.”
​
“Then there is nothing for you here,” said the voice that was his and yet was not. “Return to the King and diminish in his presence, usurped by younger men. Fade into obscurity, useless and outworn.”
​
The words clawed at Eddison’s heart, and he turned back toward the waters. His reflection stared back—gray hair turning white, the crow’s feet stretching from his eyes, his bent posture—and the knight hated what he saw. A purposeless man, robbed by the fleeting virtue of age.
​
Despite his qualms, Eddison cupped his hands under the stream of water and brought it to his lips to drink. With each quaff of the sweet waters, he saw the years fall away from his reflection. The lines on his face smoothed over. Gray hair, strand by strand, returned to its original night black. His body straightened and sinews tightened. Soon, he was gazing at a vision of himself from his youth.
​
He was young again. Eddison would escape these woods, but not before seeking out his fellow knights and slaying Cynwrig. That would be a task worthy of these rejuvenating waters. He would return to the King, every bit the hero that he once was.
​
But first, he would have one more drink from the life-giving stream. Eddison reached toward the cascade but the hand that stretched toward the water was not young and strong but emaciated and marked with liver spots. He felt his wizened face, sunken cheeks, and the places where the hair had fallen from his head.
​
Older now than he was before.
​
Panicked, the old knight gulped down more water, hoping to reverse his rapid aging, but he grew weaker and weaker until his legs could not hold him, and he collapsed to the cold, mossy stone.
​
His reflection, the paragon of youth, grinned mockingly at old Sir Eddison as the culmination of age slowed and eventually silenced the knight’s beating heart.
~ VII ~
Mortem Superbiae, or
The Tale of Sir Percy
Sir Percy was a farmer’s son,
Whose pride outstripped his station.
He refused to accept a humble fate,
Dooming his family to desolation.
Sir Percy had lied. He insisted to his fellow knights that he did not believe the stories of this haunted wood, but he did. He had believed them since he was a child. He had been reared near the western edge of this very forest.
​
The young knight knew there were things in this world beyond reckoning, and he feared them. In the King’s court, far away, it was easy to forget such things could exist. But that didn’t stop them from existing; they simply lurked in the shadows of a man’s heart.
​
If he had only recognized the danger in trusting the druid woman, the knights wouldn’t have fallen into Cynwrig’s trap. But even as the thought flitted across Percy’s mind, he knew his pride would never have let him accept that possibility. The young knight had been so sure of their mission, so utterly convinced that they would succeed in slaying Cynwrig. He had never known any of the Seven Knights to fail. And it had been inconceivable to imagine his own failure.
​
But that was the reality that faced him now as he trudged through the foreboding forest, lost and alone. He had encountered strange things in these woods already, but not a trace of his fellow knights. Perhaps the ill omen Sir Eddison had spoken of had been meant for them after all.
​
Perhaps they were all doomed to die in this hopeless wood.
​
Sir Percy tried to suppress the despair that welled up within him. It would do him no good to lose heart. Not while he could still draw breath. He would do his part to escape this evil place, but the rest would be in the hands of God.
​
The young knight stumbled awkwardly through a thick bramble, feeling the sting of thorns as they clawed at him. He freed himself from the barbs and took stock of his surroundings. The forest was as dark and featureless as ever. Rows of withered trees extended far beyond his sight.
​
The ground gave way beneath his feet.
​
Percy tumbled down an embankment, narrowly avoiding jagged rocks and splintered trees. He came to rest, bruised but unharmed, in a bed of wet leaves. Rising, Percy found himself in a circlet of slender, bone-white trees. The trees surrounded a blazing green bonfire, which bathed the forest in a spectral glow. The fire was transfixing. Percy found himself drawn to it.
​
“Trespasser!” cried a thunderous voice. Sir Percy tore his eyes away from the bewitching flame and saw a solitary man emerge from the trees. He was unmistakable, even if the crown of stag antlers and alder leaves had not rested upon his head.
​
Cynwrig, the druid king.
*****
From a very young age, Percy had helped his father till the obstinate land of his family’s farm while his mother and sisters did needlework. It took those combined efforts to keep food on their table, and many a harvest was wracked with the doubt that it would be enough.
​
But his family scraped by, and all were happy enough—save Percy. From his earliest days, the boy had dreamed of fame and renown. He envisioned himself as a mighty warrior or noble lord in his idle time. Most boys his age did the same in their imaginings, but as Percy grew, he felt his dreams were deserved and came to resent his humble life. Still, he was a dutiful son, and spent many years raising a meager crop alongside his father.
​
In Percy’s nineteenth year, his father was injured and confined to bed. It was the middle of the harvest season, and the young man was left to assume his father’s duties—a stark harbinger of the unremarkable future that awaited him. When his father died, the farm would become his responsibility to manage until the end of his days. Percy dreaded this fate. Nevertheless, he had to continue the harvest to keep his family fed.
​
However, near harvest’s end, war came to the Kingdom. Raiders from the sea made landing on the western shores and moved inland, pillaging as they went. The King rose up to battle the invaders, and the call went out that any able-bodied man in the western reaches of the Kingdom should take up arms and stand with their lord.
​
This was the opportunity that young Percy had dreamed of. He desired to go, to win renown fighting for his King, but his father—still in his sickbed—forbade it. When the King’s conscriptors arrived, the family successfully hid their son away and the army left to fight the Sea Raiders without him.
​
But Percy would not miss his chance for a weightier destiny.
​
Percy took up his sword and left in secret, reaching the King’s forces in time to join the battle. He fought valiantly in a resounding victory, and the King took notice. There, on the field of battle, the King knighted Percy and offered him a place in his court.
​
Sir Percy returned to his family with the news—he was leaving to take his place as one of the Seven Knights of the King’s court. His mother was appalled that her son would consider abandoning his family. His father’s health was dire, and the harvest was not yet finished.
​
But the newly minted knight would no longer deny the distinction he craved. He bid farewell to his family—his sisters, his mother, and his ailing father—and left that day for the King’s court, and the fame that awaited him there.
​
As he rode away, he heard his mother’s tearful, grief-stricken words, which had haunted him ever since:
​
“Damn your pride, Percy Ashfall.”
*****
Cynwrig was a mountain of a man, wild and feral. Innumerable druidic markings lined his face. An untamed beard hung down to his waist. He was cloaked in bearskin, and the antlers on his crown seemed to stretch to the shadowy canopy above. An immense axe rested in his arms.
​
“Well, little knight,” said the druid king, his voice as rattling like thunder, “you would dare trespass on this sacred place?”
​
Fear seized Percy’s heart, and he nearly fled from Cynwrig’s daunting presence. But he held his ground, unsheathed his sword, and fell instinctively into a ready stance. Finding his voice, he said, “In the name of the one, true King, I have come to slay you, Cynwrig.”
​
The druid king laughed. He let the blade of his axe glint in the green firelight. The axe head was adorned with primeval runes and the weight of it was so great that even Cynwrig’s thick arms bulged in lifting it.
​
Cynwrig charged Sir Percy, whipping the great axe about his head. The young knight parried but found himself surrendering ground in the face of the onslaught. The druid king was strong as an ox and fast as a serpent—a frightful combination—and it was all Percy could do to simply deflect the forceful blows.
​
Pressing his advantage, Cynwrig drove the knight to the edge of the clearing. When Percy’s back struck the unyielding trunk of a tree, he knew he had no ground left to give.
​
The druid king brought his axe down in a mighty swing, which caught Sir Percy’s blade square. With the mournful wail of steel against steel, his sword shattered. Instinctively, the young knight lashed out with the broken blade and scrambled back into the clearing while Cynwrig gathered himself.
​
When Cynwrig turned to face the knight, Sir Percy could see a thin red line running across the druid king’s abdomen. Blood spilled from the wound, making fresh red markings that ran down the man’s bare belly. Percy glanced at his broken sword. Its jagged edge was colored crimson.
​
Cynwrig looked at his injury, disbelieving, then back to the young knight. With a shout, he resumed his savage attack. Percy found himself retreating once more. But the knight could tell that each subsequent strike diminished in speed and power as the ichor poured from Cynwrig’s gut.
​
Sir Percy saw his opening. He redirected a sluggish blow. The heavy axe head lodged impotent in the dirt. As the druid king struggled to free his weapon from the earth’s grip, the young knight stepped forward and swung his broken blade with all the strength he could muster.
​
The sword slipped from Sir Percy’s grasp. Cynwrig’s head fell from his shoulders.
​
The druid king’s headless body spasmed and then tumbled backwards into the green bonfire, which steamed and snapped in protest.
​
Cynwrig, the self-proclaimed Lord-Over-All, was slain. And Sir Percy Ashfall had felled him.
​
The young knight could not say how long he stood there looking at the druid’s corpse—however long it took him to stop shaking. He retrieved Cynwrig’s head, proof that he had completed the King’s task. The young knight should have felt relief or triumph, but neither filled his heart. Instead, he could only think of his ailing father. Of his mother and sisters who had watched, hopelessly, as he turned his back on them, so certain that fame and glory were what he deserved.
​
Damn your pride, Percy Ashfall.
​
The weight of Cynwrig’s head was heavy, like lifting a boulder. But it did not compare to the burden borne by his soul. His hands trembled. Tears pooled in his eyes. “God forgive me,” he said, his words a hoarse whisper.
​
“Well done, Sir Percy.”
​
Startled, Sir Percy dropped the druid’s head. It hit the ground with a wet thud and rolled to a stop next to the bonfire. A shadow moved among the trees, just beyond the knight’s vision.
​
“Who goes there?” Percy said. His mouth fell open when he saw the figure who stepped into the clearing.
​
It was the King.
​
Instantly, Sir Percy dropped to one knee.
​
“Rise, my faithful knight,” said the King, looking fiercely regal even in the firelight. “You fulfilled my charge and slayed Cynwrig. You have accomplished a great deed.”
​
“It was no great deed, sire,” said Percy, glancing at the headless body burning in the green fire.
​
The King smiled at him. “And you are humble. That gives me assurance.”
​
“Sire?”
​
The King reached into his royal finery and produced a golden crown. It was breathtaking in its beauty and craftsmanship. “I have chosen my heir wisely,” he said, extending bejeweled hands to offer Percy the crown. “You are meant for more than mere knighthood, Sir Percy; your name is destined to be known throughout the land.”
​
The knight’s stomach fluttered at the words, and he lifted a hand to reach for the crown. Then, he withdrew. “Forgive me, sire, but I cannot accept. I am not a humble, but proud, and undeserving of your great gift.”
​
“You must accept,” said the King, suddenly strained. “You deserve this reward.”
​
Sir Percy bowed his head. “Sire, I deserve nothing. I see now that I am no greater than any other man, be they knight or king or farmer. I have been proud since my earliest days, and it has brought nothing but pain to those I should have cherished most.”
​
“Young knight,” said the King, and when Percy looked up at him, he saw the monarch’s face was stretched and gaunt, his stately airs withering. “If you but accept my gift, nothing will be withheld from you. Power, fame, wealth, and more beyond your wildest imaginings—all this I will give you. I know this is what you desire.”
​
“I did, sire. It was all I wished for. To be a man of renown,” said Percy. He met the King’s gaze, which faltered. “But now, I only desire one thing: that you would relinquish me from your service and let me return home that I may care for my family, if they yet remain.”
​
“What of the glory you are due? All creatures will bow before you,” said the King. With a bony hand, he gestured toward the edges of the clearing. Shadowy figures stood there, bearing witness. “To refuse? That cannot be your wish.”
​
“It is sire.”
​
“Fool!” said the King, with a voice suddenly like the howling wind. “Take the crown!”
​
As the King thrust out his hands once more, a veil fell—one that Percy had not realized was there—and he saw things clearly. The crown in the King’s hands was made not of gold, but of adders, coiling and hissing and baring expectant fangs. The young knight recoiled. He realized that the one holding the circlet of snakes was not the King, but a black-clad creature with eyes like the void.
​
A demon.
​
Percy was shocked to see that the demon’s face was his own, though it was hollow and stretched. Six other demons emerged from the forest to join the one clad in black, each their own horrible vision: a conjoined and rotting woman, a creature with eyes of cinder, disfigured squires, and others still.
​
“Take the crown!” screeched the hollow-faced man, stalking toward the young knight.
​
Heart pounding, Sir Percy dropped his shattered sword, prostrated himself on the ground and whispered the words that came into his mind. Whether they were a long-faded memory that had returned or a divine bestowment, he did not know, but this is what he said:
​
God in Heaven, hear my plea,
Put to death this pride in me.
The fount of all the wrongs in life,
For pride brings other sins to ripe.
Sin’s dark shadow mars my heart,
‘Tis my own fault, I’ve played my part.
Though undeserved, hear my plea,
And grant this mercy, Lord, to me.
​
There was a mighty groan, and Cynwrig’s headless body rose up from its emerald pyre. It grasped the black-clad demon and lifted him, shrieking, into the air before crashing back into the flames. The fire did not protest this time—in truth, it seemed kindled—and it devoured the pair greedily. As the demon’s screeching died away, its grotesque fellows quailed and fled.
​
Slowly, the green fire died, until only ashes remained. Percy stood there in the darkness for a long time. Then, he saw something. Daylight in the distance, shining all the brighter in the darkness of the forest. A way out.
​
The young knight looked back at Cynwrig’s head, resting on the mossy ground—the only proof that he had completed his quest.
​
Leaving it behind, Sir Percy Ashfall headed toward the light.
Copyright © 2024 by Alan Eckelberry. All rights reserved.