*
IV
When the days of spring came to a close, the solstice arrove and with it summer rolled into each valley and coomb of the British Isle: vivid plants and vibrant ones dashed swaths of the countryside in hopeful yellows and pinks, mythic reds, whimsical whites, and all the lonely hues that the varied vegetation nurtured in those days. That great suspended highway in the distance, the Tchrelma’Montgomery, seemed almost green in its drapery of climbing ivy and flowers grown rampant since the builders of that marble monolith had faded into history. With these summer months came too a humidity which when combined with the heat exacerbated the trials of wearing full-plate. Two unfortunate knights thusly attired rode northward through the sparse Seneca Forests, once impenetrable, now interspersed with wave-like fields. These two knights and their squire had lost their bearings, sweating and poring over a map-scroll passed back and forth between giraffes. Further frustrating the trio was that one of these knights riding was bearded Sir Wander-Gogh, and for his lack of inner compass he was being chided bitterly by his gold-and-scarlet companion.
“Confound your errant bones,” croaked Sir Sallimaide. “How do you continue to lead us astray?”
“Just as I cannot change my colors, I cannot change my ways!” Sir Wander-Gogh tired of these endless ribbits of disaproval, for they had followed him since the fellowship divid itself at London’s Gate.
Now, a strange clanging was echoing through the forest, and the knights decided to investigate. They were surrounded by pale leaves on all sides so tangled and knit with summer’s embrace that they grasped at Sir Sallimaide and Sir Wander-Gogh, pressing and prodding the three giraffes further and further on until at long last the knights emerged from the tracts of Seneca with brambled leaves parting like fingers before their bright visors. Into full sunlight they were delivered, and in the beams shining down upon the all the sunlit land they saw too, in silhouette, a bustling castle atop a nearby hill. Turrets surrounded the dark center tower, and blood-red barely-seen banners surfed the summer breeze. The clanging cacophony that rang through the countryside was from a great many people who swarmed over both the castle and the knoll surrounding it, weapons flashing and armor glinting in the heat like the far-off stars. The clamor was clearly a battle. The Frog and the Manta-Ray looked at one another, dueling with their silent eyes as to whether they should join in this grand melee or ignore the sport.
The battle was intensely disorganized and there seemed to be no sides, simply a free-for-all by the outer wall: only the thrusting of sword and pike and the smell of sweat and competition existed for the combatants. It was by merest chance then that suddenly from one of the roils of nearby strife a well-armored peasant with a hammer struck some stranger knight with such a force that the armored body was ejected from battle and, with a groan of defeat, he rolled near the spot where the Frog and Manta-Ray observed. This stranger knight’s robes and his heater shield bore azure-and-orange livery, and they saw that he was the Knight of the Lobster.
Sir Sallimaide dismounted his giraffe, and kneeled by the prone knight. “Can you hear me?” he said, rattling the dented armor.
Soft moans echoed from inside the Lobster Knight’s festooned helmet, and he weakly gargled, “Oui, uh, yes. It is a little of lost my breath for the moment, but now that moment is become the passed.” The Manta-Ray dismounted too and holp the Lobster to his feet. The man was tall but thin, and when he luft his visor all saw that he was fair and sported a thin black mustache. He sheathed his strange curved blade and through his thick accent he replied, “Well yes and thank you, O Knight of a strangest Manta-Ray. I am the Sir L’angoustier, a Knight of a Lobster, all at your services, oui yes mon frere.”
“Well met,” said Sir Wander-Gogh. “
Sir Sallimaide inquired as to the nature of the contention that surrounded the towers, and the Lobster said while stretching, “Ah, is but simple dispute over a land. The lord of this the Castle Montrose is imagine that his borders extend not so far enough around, but these the silly farmers from across the way have a disagrees with that.”
“O,” said Sir Sallimaide. “And for whom do you fight?”
Sir L’angoustier laughed. “I fight on only my own sides! I am how-you-say free lancer! I am on merely little how-you-say vacation from home France!”
“You mean to say,” puzzled Sir Wander-Gogh, “that you travelled across the Tchrelma’Montgomery to visit our island?”
“Oui, of how else might I make here? You think I have swimming in this armor?” Sir L’angoustier laughed most heartily.
Used to these frivolous and ignoble skirmishes, Sir Sallimaide rolled his tadpole pupils. “Conflicts such as this are pointless. It is good that this battle is safe, yet the foolishness of war-hungry mercenary knights contributed to the bleak Crusades.”
Sir Wander-Gogh, however, scoffed at this. “I have lent my axe to many a violent squabble,” he said, “and not all conflict is evil. Disagreements occur, and if they stay within hand then some physical dispute may exorcise the demons of all who rage. I must say that I agree with Sir L’angoustier, this battle appears most entertaining. The melee at this Castle Monstrose, yea, and we should participate.”
“Aha, vraimant! Join with myself Sir Knight of a Manta-Ray! It is the far from overs!”
The two knights on King Bidgood’s quest wrestled through their glances once again, yet eventually Sir Sallimaide conceded with a sigh. “Very well,” he said. “Some mirth along the way, but we do have a quest to attend to.”
“Who can know,” said Sir Wander-Gogh. “Perhaps the key or Wreath we seek is kept within this very stronghold.”
“True. I suppose we must look high and low, for we still are uncertain of the nature of this object we seek.”
“What is it that thing you are the searching for?”
“We know not,” admitted Sir Sallimaide, “yet we think we shall understand when we have found it.”
Hadely the squire unpacked their shields and lances from his giraffe, and set about making certain his knights were all combat ready. When Sir L’angoustier saw this he removed one glove and, placing two naked fingers in his mouth, gave a long shrill whistle that echoed over the hills. Another giraffe came galloping from the edge of the woods, stopping by the three knights and licking Sir L’angoustier affectionately across the face.
The Lobster laughed and spoke some french to the giraffe before saying to them all, “I wish for you to meet my friend, a girafe Anabelle.” Sir Sallimaide hummed a few words in the steed’s tongue, but Anabelle seemed not to understand. “What is’t you doing are?” asked the Knight of the Lobster.
“It’s strange,” said the Frog, “normally I can speak with animals. Long have I conversed with my own giraffe, Corwindel, but what’s strange is that your Anabelle cannot understand me!”
“Aha,” smirked Sir L’angoustier twirling a black noodle of his mustache, “Anabelle is only having speaking le francais.”
After bowing awkwardly to the foreign animal, the Frog and the Manta-Ray mounted their own steeds and drew weapons that glent in the solstice sun. When all their gear was prepared, the three valiant knights couched their lances and charged ferociously at the closest ranks of men. The Manta-Ray struck a mighty blow to his anonymous target’s torso, sending the man flying into the crowd. Sir Sallimaide and Sir L’angoustier each had similar success with their foes, and so the trio began their fight in high spirits. They continued to bowl into people until they were in the thick of it, a writhing sea of pugnacious farmers and soldiers and knights, all at odds with one another and screaming and yelling and the noises of steel on steel as each blow was met by either blade or shield or armor. Some men yelled in pain, and others in lust — such as the valiant Sir Wander-Gogh, whose endorphins were more ecstatic on this summer day than they had been in his recent memory. Finding companions had done much to warm his lost lonely heart, and much joy had blossomed in him for mankind since he had fallen in with the Knights of Bidgood.
“How wonderful it is,” he yelled while shoving aside a man twice his size, “to be someone who does things! O, good cheer is it to perform actions! Blessed are we who interact with the world!”
The knights had struck into the throng as far as they could, yet now they were too close for lances and Sir Sallimaide and Sir L’angoustier tossed theirs aside and drew their swords. Sir Wander-Gogh tried for a while longer to continue the use of his, jabbing a castle guard and a Knight of the Goose on their respective breastplates, but it became clear forthwith that his lance was more of a hinderance than a help — and his legs were beginning to ache from the constant vibration of his greaves from having so many direct hits landed upon them by the writhing mob. The Manta-Ray leapt heroically to the ground, scattering the mob about him, and slapped his giraffe to send it back to Hadely’s safekeeping. Drawing his grisly axe he began to swing righteously. Though his companions fared quite well as mounted swordsmen they knew that they could not let their friend continue on foot alone, so they too bid their giraffes away. It was intensely hot among the writhing horde and sweat filled the paddings of their armor. The three knights moved steadily together through the mass of men due in no small part to Sir Wander-Gogh’s strategy, determination, and expert axemanship. Neither Sir Sallimaide nor Sir L’angoustier were amateurs, but it was clear that the Manta-Ray was a genius combateur, and an expert at melee. His axe dispatched men to his left and right, often knocking several aside in the time that his companions each were able to displace an individual.
After a time of this, they began to tire of the heat of the sun, and all three caught one another’s glance and agreed to make their way towards the castle. The closer they fought their way to the fortress, the more fallen bodies could be seen lining the way. They lay still in the mud with it covering their armor, or else they slumped about the places where the stone walls met the soft soil and grass. The knights themselves formed an all-seeing three-pointed form by facing their backs to one another, and in this way were able to swiften their pace through the pugnacious press. By not engaging with any particular group they were able to slip through the main portcullis, up the steps to the castle door, and as per the Manta-Ray’s plan at last they came to the dark enclosing entrance hall of the Castle Montrose.
* * *
It was twilight when Sir Elisa and the two wise men rode down into the Sylvian Fissure, the air thick and brooding with clouds swollen full of lightning. Their path descended the well-worn rock face twisting all the winding way to the canyon floor. Thunder was threatening to break and it echoed down the ravine, growling like the clash of many blades in heated battle about a castle. Strange plants grew on the walls of the fissure, plants far different than those prominent in other parts of the English countryside. There was one particular flowering fruit that Sir Elisa had never seen before, but Hesaid had read of them, and Yalishamba knew of all the life-forms that would ever exist in this quadrant of the universe and so was quite familiar with the blossoms of the Hypercrenulum.
No one spoke. The Sparrow thought of breaking the eerie silence of the gorge with some string-enchanted music, yet when he plucked at his lyre the cords vibrote so little that nearly no noise was produced, and what he could coax out of the instrument was unnaturally tinny and dead. It seemed that music would not fly here. Eventually the slope leveled off and they rode through the narrow ravine in tense silence until Yalishamba halted them with a cryptic verse in his voice-beyond-voice. As he spake they began to see that from both sides of the ravine was a gaping cave-mouth; their band stood betwixt them. In his prismatic robe of birds the wizard slipped down from the squire’s saddle and backwards-walked to the opening on their left.
This is where I exit the fissure
Quitting that strange locale
Perhaps to be an errant player of the flute…
Even so, you must enter.
Frontal was left to care for the steeds as both Hesaid and Sir Elisa crept into the cave behind Yalishamba. It was a hewn stairway in the rock, yet the wizard faced the knight and mystic as he descended before them even though it soon became impossible to see, so impenetrable was the darkness entombed.
“What is this place?” marvelled Sir Elisa, his voice eerily echoing about the stone tunnel.
Hesaid carefully sniffed with his important breather holes. Furrowing his brow in disbelief he whispered, “This leads to a tomb.” The Sparrow’s face distorted in confusion and he sought any glimpse of the magician in the blackness, yet no answers were to be found there. Hesaid Isee still followed Yalishamba, and the minstrel-knight was forced to do the same.
“Why have you brought us to a tomb?” whispered the Sparrow as the stairs led them through utter night. There was no answer, only silence and shuffling. “And why am I to be kept in the dark twice?” It was so prevalent here that Sir Elisa had to feel his way off of the last few steps of the staircase when it ended. The silence was packed, too, in the invisible tomb along with a thin sort of moistness in the air, and the smell of wet stones and bones. In the dark, Yalishamba’s telepathy hummed in their heads with no echo.
Here have you arriven,
And from here I must now depart.
O Hesaid, thoughtful as always, farewell,
And Sir Sparrow O,
Such a beautiful hymn you have played for me,
Soon you shall play it for yourself.
I remember you playing
Singing a hymn to the one
Who has brought us all together —
Yea! And you have inspired me
To play some instrument
As we gallop the free English air!
I soon shall do
As you have done
Yet I shall play the flute.
O who can say?
Yet this is all,
This is all there is
Of this place we have finished exploring.
Onwards.
The endmost part of the wizard’s gnarled staff began to glow pale silver, illuminating the room in which they stood. It was a small square of a room — there was barely enough space for the three of them — and the ceiling tapered to a sharp point above them like a pyramid’s interior. The room had been carved into the very rock. There was a curved doorway leading deeper in, but what lay beyond it was obscured. Above its archway was the engraving ‘QVIS SVMMVS,’ but only Yalishamba could read the forgotten Roman marks and that was not what he had brought the seekers to find.
Despite the farewells of the magician, he led them under the archway to discover a long tunnel of catacombs extending further than his staff’s light could penetrate. There were stone shelves carved into the walls in which ancient suits of armor lay, all clutching swords to their breastplates.
When Hesaid spake, his words seemed small and out of place in the all-encompassing silence. “These are crypts where the most sainted of knights lay buried.”
The stone of the walls there was encrusted with brown and black shapes of varying size, and when the Sparrow examined them he realized — with a gasp that echoed in the dusty corridor — that the rock into which the tomb had been carved was encrusted with fossils. He examined one wall, and ran his mailed fingers over the intricate backbone of one of the animal remnants. One petrification that attracted him was a symmetrical ear-shaped oval with long spines running perpendicular to its length, and a large semicircular head. Sir Elisa knew this animal for it apore on the crest of one of the founding circle of original knighthood: Sir Mesozoic, the Knight of the Trilobite. Yet the other fossils were foreign to his eyes, most belonging animals long extinct.
Yalishamba backwards-walked to the far end of the tomb and there, in only the pale light of his staff guarding against the omnipresent darkness, the ancient old wizard spoke to them with words that reverberated off the walls in hypnotic patterns speaking their way clearly into the folds of Sir Elisa’s brain and into those of his cells responsible for perception.
This is the third and final location:
The place of old things gone to rest.
The realm of obsolete ideas
And our forgotten dreams.
This is the common location
From which all brains congealed
Only later evolving from wild to tame
In both beast and man.
The mind is designed to maintain
Our bodies and keep us from harm,
Our personalities and perspectives on the world
Were formed from the ways our brains once were:
Our shared past re-remembering itself.
Dismiss not these olden times now left behind,
They are the stories of your own past.
Think hard on what this means:
You are the most recent in all your line
The most advanced human yet breathing
Out of all your mighty ancestors.
Perhaps others shall come after you
Yet no man could really become you:
Nor can he see you,
Nor truly be you,
For there is no you who exists.
From our notion of the present instant
And far back to the mother-brain of all life,
Those half-remembered infrastructures
Are entombed within these halls.
And the most recent entombed here
Are the knights who lay buried, sainted
For their service at the end of England’s holy war.
I do not know if my pwn corpse lies within this place,
Yet here we have finally arriven
Within the shrouded burial hall
I have sought all along.
Solemn and in mourning for these deceased men and notions of men, Sir Elisa and Hesaid were released from Yalishamba’s enthrallment. By the light of his staff, he led them onward through the inky tomb though they were unsure of what had come over them.
* * *
It was cool and dark for the three knights who had fought their way within the Castle Montrose, and much of the din from the brawl outside was muffled by those great doors now shut, yet it was no less dangerous than the sweltering day had been. The valorous trio found themselves confronted, in the main hall, by two guards posted to defend their king. Long sheets of purple fell along the walls from the high ceiling, and there were two grand spiraling staircases at each corner of the room. A family of rats scurried across the cold floor and into a hidden place along the wall. Long tables lay self-confidently, the kind upon which one could set a feast, yet their wood was dusty and unmarked.
“Intruders!” cried one guardsman with spacious echo. The guards wore long suits of mail and kettle hats, each fastened with a small bouquet of roses. “You shan’t reach King Montrose!” As they readied their rose-strung halberds, the knights grasped their clever swords and axes. Sir Wander-Gogh hung back, worried that he had been performing most of the fighting, wishing his companions an opportunity to enter the fray as well. The zealous Lobster charged first, expertly parrying the first halberd-thrust. He sent the polearm flying wide with a flourish of his curved blade, leaving the guard defenseless. Inside the guard’s range Sir L’angoustier kicked his opponent’s mailed chest and sent him roughly to the floor, disarmed. The french knight saw with a glance to his side that the Frog was faring less well.
Gold-and-scarlet Sir Sallimaide was being kept helpless by the halberd’s range, and he could not seem to find an opening in the guard’s defense, but when Sir L’angoustier rushed to his friend’s aid the duo quickly dispatched him. After a moment the knights had caught their breath and continued on, stepping lightly over their fallen foes. Sir Sallimaide decided to take point, and began to crawl up the stairs with Sir Wander-Gogh and Sir L’angoustier following cautiously. There were clanking noises atop the spiral and Sir Wander-Gogh motioned for them to hurry, to catch the opponents unawares.
The Frog rushed up the last steps and into the hallway first to see a pair of men fighting one another with broadswords. They were soldiers in opposing livery, blue versus red, yet when they saw Sir Sallimaide they joined forces and charged. The fiery-bearded Frog Knight was able to dodge the sword of the first soldier, who flew past him, but he knew that his balance was too far thrown to do anything about the second soldier’s rapid approach. Sir Sallimaide could do nothing but take the sword-blow, which jarringly rent against his breastplate. Sir Wander-Gogh rushed to his companion’s aid, and both the Manta-Ray and the Frog fought valiantly against their respective and respected opponents until all four men were out of breath.
The knightly rules stated that if the warriors were evenly matched and a finishing blow was unlikely, neither could claim victory until the other had collapsed; it was beginning to seem like this would the case with Sir Sallimaide and the soldier he faced, for each slice and thrust was matched in vigor by the other man’s blade and very few clean hits were landed on either combatant. The soldier was able to gain the offensive and pushed it so hard that Sir Sallimaide was nearly unable to keep the fury at bay. Fortunately, the Manta-Ray had defeated his own adversary and now rushed to his companion’s side. A sword-point victory was easily secured with Sir Wander-Gogh’s assistance, and both soldiers lay themselves on the floor, vanquished and breathless. It was then that, to the two knights’ unhappy astonishment, Sir L’angoustier finally crested the top of the spiraling stair.
Sir Sallimaide, gasping for breath, asked “What happened? Were there more foes behind?”
“Aha. Non. I made a small break from halfway up for some of cheese and croissants. Some of this and this still is left if you either of you will wishes to eat.”
The Manta-Ray grimaced unseen and Sir Sallimaide sighed aloud, “Nay and yet thank you Sir L’angoustier. I think it would be best for us to press on.” The Lobster shrugged and on they went, towards the elaborate doors that could only lead to the chamber of the King of Montrose.
They entered the throne-room as determined as an athame, shattering the weaves of the door’s wood into splinters that filtered through the dusky grey haze all around them. Sir Sallimaide stood at the forefront of the configuration, with Sir Wander-Gogh in his cumbersome helm to the left of him, and the strangely-stanced Sir L’angoustier to his right. Inside however, they discovered a couple already locked in combat illuminated by the flood of light through the tower’s open window. One was clearly the king of the castle: he wore a long purple cloak of ermine, and fought with a gigantic silver broadsword. Upon the dark curly locks of regal hair he wore a crown of folded tinfoil. King Montrose seemed a ferocious opponent: the swings of his sword were mighty and left his cloak trailing behind them. Yet the weight of his weapon was more of an encumbrance than a boon in this fight, for his adversary was quick and agile. The valorous trio stood in the entrance of the room, enthusiastically watching the duel through their calculating eyes.
The opponent of the throne was a knight as well, but his robes were shredded and worn almost to the point of illegibility. Sir Wander-Gogh was the first to make them out, and he said to his companions, “It’s an Orca.”
“Yellow-and-violet: the Knight of the Orca,” cried Sir Sallimaide, cheering him on.
That ragged knight with face unseen thrust his brand forward then, slicing through the king’s cloak. But so thick was the raiment that the lithe blade became trapped and threw the Orca Knight off balance. King Montrose saw it. He swung his broadsword once more at the assailant, who rose his shield only just in time. But the royal blade was powerful, smashing through the aegis and felling the yellow knight to the ground.
Sir L’angoustier applauded the successful blow, and Sir Sallimaide cried “Alas!…” but then the noises stuck in their throats as their spectator’s eyes instantly saw the imminent disaster. Sir Wander-Gogh rushed towards them as best he could but was not swift enough to prevent the deed: from within the mottled robes of the unnamed Orca Knight came a long serpentine dagger, and it slipped between the charging king’s ribs. Dark blood spurted from the wound, and ran down the form of the speechless monarch. The Knight of the Orca was bathed in it. The royal broadsword clanged noisily to the ground as the king gasped, retching quantities of vital humor. A rising stench of disembowelment stung the knights’ nostrils.
Sir Wander-Gogh dove valiantly and caught Montrose’s limp form before it fell, cradling the dim body to him. The king could only gargle blood as he glared vehemently at the Orca until his eyes shortly became lifeless and the wine of his veins pooled on the floor, seeping through cracks in the masonry.
The Frog and the Lobster at once dashed forward then to restrain that murderous Orca, yet this strange knight was unnaturally quick and roech the open window before the pair had come close enough. He turned his impenetrable visor towards them for only an instant, and Sir Sallimaide caught a glimpse of fearful inhuman eyes through the thin slits.
Sir Wander-Gogh yelled, “No!” but the rogue knight was gone, vanished out the window. Sir Sallimaide thrust his head from the opening and tried to spy the Orca’s descent but, puzzlingly, the assassin seemed to have vanished.
The Frog Knight spaye the wide land — the melee outside the castle, rolling pale hills and scraggly thickets, further fields of mortuary mounds — before withdrawing his head and croaking, “He is gone. Escaped, woe, from this evil deed.”
“As evil men sometimes do,” sighed Sir Wander-Gogh, closing the eyes of the man who once was king and simply cradling that regal bleeding corpse.