Dragonrouge, p.8
Dragonrouge, page 8
“Now, what in the world—!” marveled Sir Kesrick, stopping short. He stared, and they with him.
Quite suddenly, the forest had divulged a trimmed and clipped hedge of thornbushes, twice taller than a man. This could only be the sign of human habitation, and the hospitality of whoever might dwell here could, perhaps, be anticipated.
For a time, they followed the hedge, eventually discovering a gate of what they could have sworn was solid silver. There was no slug-horn nor bell for them to sound, but Arimaspia, whose feet were sore and who wished mightily to sit down and have a cold drink, pushed against the bars, and the gate opened to her touch as if by magic.
Peering within, they saw meadows which stretched off to a considerable distance on every side, and a road of clean and freshly raked gravel which stretched before them into the hazy distance and seemed to beckon invitingly.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, is (or ought to be) the motto of knightly adventurers. Therefore they entered and began to follow the gravel road, all of them, that is, save for Arimaspia, who, bare foot, much preferred to tread upon the lush, dewy grasses beside the gravel path.
Erelong they came to an enormous and very ancient castle of hoary stone, overgrown with what looked like centuries of ivy. As they approached, fountains began to spout and splash in stone basins which had heretofore been dry. The portal was an immense slab of waxed centuries-old oak, which opened noiselessly at a touch.
“We seem welcome enough,” mused Kesrick. He called out a greeting, to which there returned no answer but many solemn echoes. They ventured within, finding themselves at one end of a high-roofed hall, whose stone walls were lined with age-blackened oil portraits interspersed with suits of armor. Candelabra protruded from the walls on bronze fixtures, and as they ventured down the hall, these were lit one by one, and by invisible hands.
“This must be the palace of some powerful sorcerer,” whispered Felixmarte. Kesrick nodded.
“But not, apparently, an unfriendly one,” he observed.
At the end of the long hall they found themselves in a wide circular room like a rotunda. A fireplace of carven gray marble was set into one wall, with a fire snapping cheerily upon the grate, although there seemed to be no one about. Before the fire, a table was drawn, set with snowy damask. Crystal goblets and decanters, superb silver, and porcelain plates and dishes were already laid out for three. There were also three tall chairs of carved oak with seats and backs of padded brocade drawn up to the table.
At their tentative approach, all three chairs moved out a little as if in silent but eloquent invitation.
“Goodness,” breathed Arimaspia. “We certainly do seem to be welcome enough, but where is our host?”
Neither of her companions could answer that question, but the delectable odors of hot soup came from the tureens and the aroma of cooked meats and sauces and gravies from the many covered dishes.
They seated themselves, staring around them in bewilderment. The walls of the rotunda were hung with worn and faded tapestries. Fresh dry rushes were strewn upon the stone-paved floor, and aromatic herbs had been sprinkled upon them. The savory odors of the foods—which seemed to have been taken from the ovens only moments before—assaulted their nostrils.
Excellent wines stood in crystal decanters, buried to their necks in silver buckets filled with crushed ice.
Kesrick shrugged, and helped himself. “Champagne?” he asked, and poured three goblets full. Arimaspia served the soup, which was of cream and asparagus and spiced with chives and thyme, and unutterably delicious. Felixmarte curiously removed the lid from a huge platter and found a roast suckling pig with a baked apple in its mouth, done to perfection. With a happy sigh, he picked up a silver knife and began to carve.
There followed a fish course in lemon butter, seasoned flawlessly, and vegetables in cream gravy, and a crisp and frosty salad with oil and vinegar, and some sort of small fowl on skewers, and they drank champagne with the pork, white wine with the fish, and red wine with the fowl, regardless of official propriety.
From time to time they glanced about, expecting their unseen host to make his appearance at any moment, but he remained absent. As none of the three adventurers had enjoyed so sumptuous a meal in many, many days, they ate with a hearty appetite and thoroughly enjoyed the feast.
After the meal, there were ripe fruit in silver bowls and hot, flaky pastries steaming and stuffed with cinnamon-spiced slices of apples, and nine kinds of sherbet poured over shaved ice. Then followed hot, fragrant coffee, which they found novel and interesting.
All the while, the fire blazed on the grate. From time to time, a log would collapse into white ash, and every time this happened invisible hands replaced it with a fresh log.
After their lunch—if one can insult so splendid a repast by calling it merely “lunch”—three doors which they had not previously noticed opened in the rotunda walls. Peering into one, Arimaspia found a dainty boudoir and a porcelain tub in which a bath had just been drawn. It was filled with hot, soapy water and she sighed blissfully as she submerged herself therein. Unseen hands scrubbed her back with a sponge while yet other invisible servitors shampooed and dried and combed and brushed her golden hair.
Kesrick and Felixmarte investigated the other two rooms and found more manly accommodations, as well as steaming, sudsy baths obviously drawn for them. Without further ado, the two knights shucked off their mail and other garments, and wallowed in the rare luxury of a hot bath.
When they arose therefrom, viewless hands enfolded them in soft, heated towels. They discovered that fresh garments had been laid out for them, Kesrick’s including a fine new surcoat of claret-red satin trimmed with gray fur, Felixmarte’s of brown velvet the color of cloves. After such a long time on the road, it was unutterably pleasant for both knights to don fresh garments and undergarments.
They also noticed that, while they had been enjoying their baths, their mail or armor had been scrubbed and oiled and here and there, the ravages of battle and adventure had been skillfully repaired.
Their gratitude to their unknown benefactor knew, as the saying has it, no bounds.
Emerging from their rooms, they discovered the Princess Arimaspia preening in front of a long mirror that had not previously made its existence known. She was wearing a long gown of sapphire-blue taffeta the precise shade of her lovely eyes, with a low-cut bodice trimmed with ivory-hued lace. She looked exquisite, and she knew it
Since Sir Kesrick had heretofore only seen his lady-love completely nude, he found the sight of her modestly clothed oddly tantalizing and also titillating.
Through the tall casements of the hall it could be seen that the shadows of afternoon were gradually lengthening across velvety lawns where white peacocks strolled languidly. Evening was nigh.
“We could stay the night, I suppose,” said Arimaspia dreamily.
“We could; but I think it best that we be on our way. We have, after all, many more leagues to go,” replied Kesrick.
“Oh, dear—by Petosyrus, but I suppose you’re right!” she sighed. It was so easy, after such a long time of doing without them, to become accustomed to the luxuries and comforts of civilized life.
On their way out, the travelers found themselves in vast gardens where ten thousand roses bloomed, each more splendid and more perfect than the last. They were of every shade from snowy white to mellow ivory, yellow, gold, pink, rich crimson. Arimaspia had never seen such superb blooms and wanted to pick one and take it with her, if only as a souvenir of this happy afternoon.
It is perhaps very fortunate that she thought better of it and left their host’s glorious roses untouched….
15
Mandricardo’s Monster
The Tartar knight and the Amazon girl awoke the next morning to discover that the magician Atlantes had already arisen. While the famous Wizard of the Pyrénées was not accustomed to arising at so early an hour, his old bones and joints were aching him, and it was entirely due to the pangs of rheumatism that he had wakened at dawn.
Magicians such as Atlantes, it seems, can prolong their term of earthly existence far beyond the normal span allotted to ordinary men. But joints are joints, nonetheless, and age will take its toll in one way, if not in another.
The two lovers rose from their slumbers to discover that Atlantes had already commanded service from the invisible spirits that attended him. That is, a table was set—having melted out of nowhere, for it had certainly not been there the night before—and was laden with crisp linen, sparkling silver, and dishes of gold.
There was hot chocolate in a golden teapot, and hot buttered toast, and rashers of crisp, succulent bacon, and scrambled eggs, and nine kinds of jam, jellies and preserves, and—I don’t know what else. They broke their fast with gusto and dined sumptuously, nearly as well as had Kesrick and Arimaspia and Sir Felixmarte at their luncheon in the enchanted castle.
When they were done, and the last drop was drunk and the last scrap of food devoured, Mandricardo sat back with a hearty sigh of repletion, and, surreptitiously, let out the two top buttons of what he wore in lieu of trousers, which had not yet become popular, anyway. He felt at peace with the whole world; but Callipygia was more than a trifle curious.
Watching the empty plates and the crumpled napkins, and, indeed, the very table itself, whisk themselves out of existence, it occurred to the Amazon girl to inquire why, since Atlantes could perform such miraculous feats as summoning entire meals-for-three out of empty air, he had not done so the other night—when, as you may recall, it had been her own prowess with bow and arrow that had brought down the fowl which had served them for supper.
Atlantes chuckled.
“Perhaps, madame, my existence has been a rather sheltered one in recent generations!” he observed dryly. “When you can command splendid meals out of nothingness, you become, may I say, satiated on delicacies. And, since I have embarked upon this adventure, it seemed to me interesting to enjoy a rude but hearty meal, cooked in the open air. And enjoy it I did, and with relish!
“Also,” he added slyly, “from the way that Mistress Callipygia eagerly unlimbered her bow of yestereve, and stalked off into the wilderness to procure game for our meal, methinks she wished to demonstrate her skills in bringing home (as the saying goes) the, ah, bacon.”
The Amazon girl flushed, then grinned, displaying adorable dimples. This was exactly true, and it had pleased her pride enormously to have been able to prove her prowess with the bow the night before. Still and all, licking the last crumb of perfect toast from the corner of her mouth, and thinking nostalgically of the gorgeous hot chocolate, she rather wished that she had let the Wizard of the Pyrénées provide their nutriment… .
Atlantes, his stomach filled and his rheumatics at their rest, was eager to be up and aloft on the traces of the missing Frankish knight and his lady-love. Mandricardo assisted the old magician to don his gleaming armor and helped him into the saddle of Brigadore, who, for his part, having feasted no less splendidly than they on the fresh, dewy grasses, was anxious to be aloft and away in search of his master and mistress.
The two dwindled into the clear, sparkling air of morning, and Mandricardo and Callipygia were not far behind in climbing into Bayardetto’s saddle and setting off. They cantered across the plain, and the Tartar knight sighed blissfully:
“Oh, I say, old girl, how jolly good life is! To have a knightly quest, what: To prick manfully across the trackless plain in search of adventures, for maidens to rescue and lost comrades-in-arms to assist out of, you know, dangers and perils!” he exclaimed zestfully.
Callipygia turned in the saddle to give him a look.
“So long as the maiden you rescue is the lady-love of Sir Kesrick and not some other hussy, all is well,” she observed rather frostily.
“Oh, I say, old girl, what!” he chirped cheerfully. They rode off across the plain in the general direction of the east, still following the Giant’s footprints.
And came upon a Monster!
It was a Unicorn; and not one of your dainty, pretty, little silken-white Unicorns, either. They are fit only for postcards or pictures in children’s books: this was your real, true Unicorn, as first described by wise Ctesias centuries before: dangerous as a bear, big as a house, and with a horn long enough, sharp enough and strong enough to impale an elephant, if need be .
It was, in point of fact, the very near relative of the common or garden Unicorn, properly known to the students of unnatural history as the Monoceros. While still vaguely horselike in its appearance, its hide was not sleek and silky, but leathery and tough. And it was huge and heavy and strong.
Also, it was in a bad temper.
“Good-oh!” exclaimed Sir Mandricardo. “How jolly, what? Let me drop you here, m’love, whilst I give challenge to this dreadsome creature, eh?”
Callipygia, who could handle her short-bladed Amazonian sword as ably as could any man, bit her tongue and kept silent, although it was a struggle. She had fallen madly in love with the Tartar knight, Amazon or no Amazon, and was beginning to understand that men have their pride in prowess even as do Amazons.
So she slid meekly from the saddle and stood, gazing with admiration, real or feigned, as her stalwart champion snapped down the vizor of his helm, donned shield and snatched up spear, sank his rowels into the sleek sides of Bayardetto, and cantered off across the plain to, if not do battle against the Monoceros, at least to bellow his chivalric challenge.
The fact that the monster was bigger than a brace of bulls did not deter his enthusiasm for the contest.
Now the Monoceros, as has just been remarked upon, was in a rather foul temper that morning. An hour or two earlier, it had been hunting for hippopotami along the upper headwaters of the River Indus down in Hindoostan, and had found no luck. Monoceroses enjoy a succulent and tasty snack of hippopotamus-flank from time to time, it seems, and the frustration of not being quite able to capture one of the juicy creatures still rankled in the breast of Mandricardo’s monster.
Hence, when the Monoceros, piggy little eyes for once alert, spotted the knight in gleaming armor cantering across the plain toward its mudhole, wherein it was at present wallowing, its sullen temper flared into monocerontic rage.
It came out of the mud, neighing like a steam whistle, and headed toward the mortal annoyance, fat, short legs waddling with amazing speed, and, by the way, shaking the earth, ever so slightly, beneath its weight.
Now, Bayardetto was a veteran warhorse, and knew how to handle himself in battle, mélee, siege, foray, or whatever. Had his master been spurring him into conflict with another mounted knight, the strong, intelligent black stallion would have held steady to the course and gone about his horsely duty.
But a Monoceros charging directly at one has an unsettling effect on any horse, even one so staunch and disciplined as Bayardetto. Who, quite naturally, swerved to one side to permit the thundering hooves of the immense monster to rush by.
“Oh, I say, dash it all!” cried Sir Mandricardo in vexation. He reined his steed in and turned his head about and spurred him into the fray once again.
Snorting like a water buffalo in heat, the Monoceros turned about, swerving ponderously, and charged at knight and rider once again. And once again the intelligent warhorse, and quite sensibly, avoiding the encounter with something that could easily have gone over him and his rider as a steam engine goes over an automobile.
“By my halidom, horse, what ails you?” cried Mandricardo fretfully. And, once again, he headed his trusty steed toward the lumbering monster which had, once again, managed to halt its clumsy stride and turn about, to charge them.
By this time, it must be admitted, Mandricardo was sweating in his armor, and the leveled spear was becoming heavier and heavier in his grip. Nonetheless, blinking the perspiration from his eyes fiercely, kneeing Bayardetto forcibly, he hurtled once again toward his monstrous and ill-tempered adversary—
—Who unaccountably swerved a little to one side!
And headed toward where Callipygia stood, knee-deep in the thick grass, hands clasped, in admiration for her hero’s bravery, between her two magnificent breasts.
The Amazon girl had not even drawn her own sword; and now there was not time enough to do so.
For, with the irresistible weight and velocity of an avalanche thundering down the flanks of one or another Alp, the Monoceros came surging down upon Callipygia, moving with a rapidity that seemed uncanny for a brute of such tonnage.
BOOK FOUR
THE LIGHTER-THAN-AIR PRINCESS
16
Befriending a Dragon
Along toward mid-morning, Kesrick and his companions were footsore and heartily weary of traveling by Shank’s mare. Never had the two knights or the princess more earnestly appreciated the comfort and convenience of riding hither and thither and yon on horseback. Or, in Sir Kesrick’s case, Hippogriff-back. But there was nothing that they could do about it, but limp on, sweating in their mail.
This part of the countryside became bleak and barren; the earth folded itself into rocky ridges cleft asunder by steep ravines. The air was dry and sultry with curious vagrant whiffs of sulfur and brimstone on every other breeze.
For a time they were able to traverse the ravines by jumping across them, for they were narrow. At length, however, they came to one that was wider—so wide that it would take wings to get to the other side.
“What now?” sighed Arimaspia. And just then another whiff of brimstone—stronger and more pungent than any before—curled up from the pit before them. They peered curiously over the edge and were frozen to the marrow by a horrendous and unexpected sight.
At the very bottom of the ravine, a dragon lay sprawled and apparently napping. It was nowhere near the size of Dzoraug, the Great-Grandfather of All Dragons, with whom Kesrick had conversed on an earlier adventure at the easternmost Edge of the World. But it was certainly big enough, measuring some thirty-eight paces from wrinkled snout to barbed tail tip.
