The Final Quest (The Parsival Saga Book 3) (17 page)

“John … For God was with him. He gave blessing to many … many …”

Broaditch half-turned to take this in.

“Blessing,” she murmured. She thought what a blessing it would be to sit under the trees at twilight after supper. Have long Bym come visit with his pipes and all sing and nibble sweetcakes while the children ran and played in the mysterious dimness feeling the amazing promise of time.

“He laid his hand upon me,” Pleeka said, “and I felt the grace of Lord Jesus pass into me …”

She kept her hand resting high on his skull. He was more or less kneeling before her.

“You can open your heart,” she told him, “if you choose.”

“Ah … gracious woman,” he sighed, very sane for the moment.

She felt tears and pity. No one could ever become accustomed to real suffering, she believed. Any lost soul, like a starving child, touched what was lost in your own person and would bring any but a stone to hot tears.

“Poor, broken man,” she murmured.

“He had the power and the word.”

“John?”
Why
must
there
be
such
men
that
all
believe
them
and
they
prove
ever
false
?
John
…
Men
ought
not
to
believe
other
men
but
seek
good
only
in
their
private
hearts
and
if
they
find
it
keep
silent
…

“Where are they taking us?” Broaditch demanded. “What will they do?”

Pleeka said no more. Rested his face in his hands as the stifling wagon sagged and swayed on and Broaditch sat down in furious frustration.

“Well then?” Alienor put to him.

“Let it come dark,” he said, at length, “and we’ll see what may be done.”

If
he reasoned,
they
don’t
kill
us
by
daylight
first
…

XXIX

Skalwere wouldn’t admit he was beaten and frustrated. He padded on through the twists, dips and knotting of corridors until he found himself by an outside wall where a long sunbeam tilted across the straight dusty hallway that ran into empty obscurity. He peered through a windowslit and saw deserted fields with the sun well above the bluish shimmer of horizon hills. No sound floated up to him. Here, in the upper levels, he felt safe from those dark devils of the night. This place was barren, he realized, long unused …

And Howtlande would feel safe too. Somewhere up here. He padded on. Up a circular stair now, in a wide tower … came out in a bright room, crouched forward, noting tracks in the floordust, moving with a slight smile and gritted teeth towards a closed, canopied bed that sat between two sunbright windows. He squinted, held his hand up to the shining as he teased back the faded silk hangings with his spearpoint, saw the glare blurred figure lying there.

“Bastard coward!” he hissed.

Thrust in a violent spasm of contempt and fury, shouting:

“Sleep on then!”

Then knowing it was wrong even before he felt the weapon pierce the too-thin body and no blood gushed to the pale covers on the pale lord, because the bearded face had fallen in on itself and was past pale to waxy bluish, and the whole frame shook stiffly under the blow and flopped stiffly when he yanked the spearhead free and now the corpse lay starfished on the elegant bed. He saw that one hand was missing and that the flesh was desiccated without real rot (except the eyes were not good to study) and he thought:

Why
didn’t
they
bury
him
?
What
Briton
strangeness
. Because he couldn’t know that this was Unlea’s husband, left unburied when the plague decimated the castle folk …

Snarling he turned because he’d felt it and knew he should have felt it sooner and was raging at himself, thinking:

He
let
you
believe
he’s
altogether
a
fool!

The massive figure in the doorway was already taking dead aim with a bow virtually pointblank, weary, determined, spiteful, flabby.

But
he’ll
have
to
talk
,
the
fat
hog
,
trust
him
not
to
just
dispatch
a
man
…

“So, Skalwere,” Howtlande said, aiming steady, “you traitor. The quarry takes the hunter, it seems.” Waited, aiming. “What say you to that? Hm, treacherous one?” the Viking crouched and watched. When the finger let go the string he would twist. There was always a chance he might not be mortally struck. “Silent, are you? I followed
you.
” Nodded. The voice was just under hysteria, the other noted, waiting. His mouth tasted like metal. Dry. “All is not lost, Skalwere, that’s the point. Which is why I’m loath to slay you. What think you of that?”

He
wants
companionship
, Skalwere thought.
Fire
damn
you
and
let’s
have
done!
He was concentrating too hard to speak.

“I say all is not lost,” Howtlande insisted. “We bide our time.

Find a new company of stout lads, you see? the point is to live! What do you say to that? You’re too good a fellow to waste.”

He’s
all
cunning
and
no
heart
at
all
, Skalwere thought
Why
wants
he
life
,
what
savor
can
it
have
for
such
a
one
?
No
sense
in
waiting
…

His chances seemed better than he’d imagined.

“And betray the next crew too?” he wondered, playing now.

“What use to merely add our deaths to the rest?”

“We all die anyway. It’s all in how you do it, Briton.”

Dipped his knees fraction by fraction.

“Then why did you flee the north, Skalwere? For honors sake?” He grinned.

“Never mind that. Shoot and be damned.” the spear shook in his hand but by the time he raised it he’d be hit.

“Why make pretense?” Howtlande asked, feeling on surer ground now. This was something well within his province. “We’re fine fellows to prate of honor and death.”

Skalwere ground his teeth and clenched his fists white with hate.

“Coward,” he managed to say.

“Yes, yes, and you were brave to flee your homeland.”

There was foam at the Viking’s lip corners.

“I flee no more,” he mouthed.
It
will
be
seen
…
it
will
be
seen
… “We’ll be alive,” Howtlande was saying, quite unheard now, “and the living have all the advantages …” and broke off because the little, stooped man was coming straight on, spear leveled, not even charging, not even trying, coming step by step, eyes popped, and Howtlande realized this vicious barbarian was walled off from any touch save death’s, knew his arrow couldn’t miss at this range and suddenly feared the demon within the other might not die, thinking this wasn’t just a man stalking out of the dusty sunbeams, but his own mined fate, and he could have wept thinking how nothing ever really worked for him, not at home or with that wipeass Clinschor … and now this … this … always thwarted …

“Damn you!” he screamed at the stupid madness of his sullen fate as this final, senseless-as-stone representative of unreason lurched towards him.

Skalwere, not hearing, mind going on and on:

No more … no more … here’s an end … let this be the final holmgang, myself with myself in the deadly circle
… Bared his teeth and howled like a wolf and charged …

While far below, the knight in the cellar was leaning on a pillar in fetid, total darkness. He had no idea how many hours he’d been wandering. It had been faintly amusing at first as each attempt at a straight course failed and left him groping from pillar to pillar unable to reach a wall without circling, so that this chamber seemed boundless … His thoughts bothered him. They were too vivid in the silent blankness, memories flashed unbidden … far away ringings and whistling … random images as if he were about to fall asleep …

He decided to try again. Why not? He let go of the stone support and tried one step at a time. The blackness was an actual pressure. He went on, counting his steps this time, trying that, and had reached ninety, groping, heart racing when he struggled not to run because he knew he’d hit a pillar (they weren’t actually round and had sharp edges) and then lost count and heard himself shouting like a frightened child, the cries sucked to nothingness as though the dark were a sponge of all sound and movement and he felt the panic growing …

No
echo
…
no
echo
…

How far could the walls be? His body had just started to run while his reason hammered at it repeating he’d seen the building by day and it wasn’t
that
big except the panic replied:
You’re far under the earth by now there’s magic here you’re on the road to hell … there’s no bottom
… He was running now, staggered as his shoulder glanced, ringing, off stone with a sparking scrape and still he ran … then stopped, seeing light … panting, seeing light up ahead … warm, reddish-yellow gleaming.

Torchlight
…
even
if
it’s
killers
I’d
rather
die
in
a
fight
…

Closer, the light was diffused. Blinked, strained his vision. No torches … the illumination was stronger at the edges of sight and it revealed no forms, neither roof nor earth nor support, nor his hand held up to his eyes either.

Witchlight
, his mind decided.

And then they were there, emerging without perceptible edges from the darkness, faintly reddish, squat, massive, hinted. He drew his sword.

“In Christ’s name,” he said, “keep your distance, I adjure thee!”

We
know
thee
,
Galahad
, something somehow said without a voice.

“What? I have lost that name forever.”

Now
it
hath
found
thee
.

“Who are you?” He strained but made out only rounded, almost limbs and perhaps skulls with possible eyes.

What
you
see
, came the reply.

“I see almost naught.”

This
is
the
bottom
of
the
world
,
Galahad
.

“No. This is a cellar.” He was afraid but fighting back. That gave him security. “A cellar.”

Flee as thou wiliest, all the world will hold thee here. All the weight of it above. We will deliver unto thee all its measures and secrets, Galahad, and make thee great among men.

“I want none of it.”

At
thy feet are rare and precious gems. But stoop and toad thy hands, knight. Stoop! Stoop!

He found himself bending and gathering his hands full. Stood up and filled his pouch until it hung heavy at his armored side.

Believe
in
us!

He trembled, losing the fight … losing … He found himself nodding. Others had spoken of the Holy Grail …

might such things be real and close at hand? Was that why he was led here, was there truth and purpose in the world still? Could men be led in fact by beings from beyond the veil and childhood tales tell soundly and reason fail? Was his life to be born new henceforth? … Trembled. Was it possible?

But
stoop
now
and
take
up
the
food
of
eternal
life!

He did, gathered handfuls soft and warm, a caressing, rich and soothing to his hot hands.

“Yes,” he murmured, “yes … yes …”

Pass on and behold the glories of our
kingdom!

And he realized he’d been still walking. How long he couldn’t tell. He was weary …

Now there was faint grayish light filtering in from somewhere above. Blinked, focused and found himself in a wide, brick hall. High up there were streaks of light, and he thought:

God
,
I
praise
Thee
for
Thy
mercy
!

Looked around. Saw a litter of iron and steel, rusted helmets, bent blades … suits of armor … broken wheels, shattered pottery …

A
junkheap
.

… rotting mattresses, broken beds and chairs enmeshed by delicate massings of spiderweb that wisped at his face and further grayed the air … all these disparate items were joined and blended by this immense network … faded tapestries … even a smashed wagon and stacks of mildewed clothes … a shattered sundial …

He went on.

… rusted chains, broken scythes … a bent saw … a peeling portrait on wood of a roundfaced, jowly man wearing a crown with a seeming scepter in his hand, standing while others knelt, a sleek dog with lolling tongue looking up with adulation … Then a wooden door, ajar, brighter light behind it, and it wasn’t until he reached for the handle that he recalled the holy food in his hands, held them up and then flung away the muck that coated his fingers and palms, pushed through the door and emptied his beltpouch on the dusty earth in the yard where sun glared as though the ground were melting into flame. Watched the dull little rocks clatter, bounce and scatter …

He smiled. Shook his head.

I’ve
been
a
fool
…
wasted
so
many
years
…

Headed outside, squinting. Stood in the courtyard staring at a few pale, dried weeds that pushed up through the cracked and dusty earth. Their shadows flicked lightly as the breeze shook them. Those near the failing well under the outer wall where they’d found more precious wetness, he thought with strange wonder, had more gracefully arched forms and were greener. He stared as if the dark he’d just passed through had blotted and soaked up troubles, memories, years, and now, pondering these delicate spears of attempted life, he realized he wanted to make things grow, suddenly, to take land, dig and plant, reap from the miraculous earth! And he knew he wasn’t mad. Possibly, he mused, for the first time in his life he wasn’t mad … Remembered now: