Baf 66 merlins ring, p.21
BAF 66 - Merlin's Ring, page 21
part #66 of Ballantine Adult Fantasy Series
He drew the creature back and Gwalchmai took another step toward it, this time with hilt in hand. He swung up Durandal.
The movement caught the wizard’s eye and he lifted the Wand. A fury of sparks darted against Gwalchmai, but at that instant a streaming curtain of light, as impenetrable as diamond and as transparent, surrounded the whole group. It touched the floor tightly, circling their feet, and rose to an apex at the ring on Gwalchmai’s upraised hand.
The light surged along Durandal in cold waving ripples. The sword gleamed a noble and menacing blue.
The wizard eyed it closely and the hand that bore it. He seemed to shrink slightly into his seat. The basilisk crouched as though to spring. He drew it gently back.
The appearance of a double identity passed from his face. Whatever had dwelt there briefly now deserted him and departed to its own place, leaving him to face the Paladin’s blade alone. He was not daunted.
“I have been entrusted to give you a further warning. Enrage my master no longer, lest your soul perish. Be warned that he who lives longer than other men must also rest longer than others do. Remember also that while one sleeps one is helpless and it is well that a sleeping man has no enemies.
“I am not otherwise advised of your attainments or qualities, nor do I wish to learn more, but I bow to the power of your ring. The emblem it bears is well known to me. I pray you, approach in peace and tell me something of it and the Mage who bore it.”
As he spoke, his eyes never leaving Gwalchmai’s, his fingers were fumbling with the fastening of the basilisk hood.
Corenice whispered, but Gwalchmai had already seen. Before those deadly eyes could be unveiled, Durandal flashed down.
The reptilian head leapt from the wildly flailing neck, from which blood spouted as from a hose.
The wizard’s face contorted with hate. Again the Wand swung up, but as his eyes narrowed with the intent, the sword of Roland was midway in its sweep.
Durandal passed through the body of the dark man like a. wisp of vapor and clanged upon the throne. As it made contact, everything changed. Like a bursting bubble, the surrounding phantasms passed away.
The pillars of the hall were once more broad-branched trees. Mist hung again above them and the furnishings were gone. All this in the time in which the sword continued on and struck sparks once more from the boulder upon which dying Roland had sought to shatter it.
The steel rang like a bell, but did not break. Its edge was keen and unbanned.
The five looked around as though waking from a dream. The treasure chest was still full, the meadow was empty and safe. There was only one difference that could be noted from before, to prove to them that what they had seen had been no illusion and that they had stood in a very real danger.
Wherever the blood of the basilisk had fallen, the grass beneath those flying drops lay dead and withered.
“Jesu maitia!” exclaimed Jaun. “I shall go no farther. You people doubtless have busy angels to protect you, but I am not so sure that mine are as hard-working as yours. Gaichoa, friends! This is where we part.”
“You were to guide us through the mountains, comrade,” remonstrated Arngrim. “We are still among them.”
“If you get lost here, you will have to climb the peaks to do it. Keep on down the pass. It leads into France, but I think if I take that road my wife will be a lonely widow.”
“Then, cot so hastily. Let us first share out the wizard’s gold. Perhaps, when she sees what you have brought, you may get a better welcome.”
“Xana’s gold!” corrected the Basque. “Xanas always reward their friends with gifts.”
There was still a hanging back among them. No one seemed to want to be first to approach the opened chest again, possibly feeling that the action might call the enchanter back.
Finally Mairtre, for she had been its guardian, set her little hands to the task of overturning the heavy box; Arngrim hurriedly moved to help her and all gathered around the tumbled riches lying upon the greensward.
No enchanter appeared. It was not long before a rough division of the treasure had been made. With the remainder of the wine they drank a kantu to each other and to their lucky future, as they hoped it would prove to be. After this sincere toast, they sorrowfully parted, heavily laden and looking back over their shoulders—waving and calling goodbyes until they could no longer see Jaun.
They went on a little faster then, as the pass widened and their way dropped down into Gascony. They did not speak very much, for they had grown to like the Basque and all partings bring home a sense of melancholy and man’s mortality.
Often, in later years, Arngrim wondered about his oar companion. He never heard what the future brought him, but Gwalchmai, by accident, did.
Much time had passed by. He was looking over a book of maps, in a library in Byzantium, compiled by Idrisi, the Arab cartographer, when his eyes fell upon a familiar name. He read eagerly on. It was the tale of the brothers Magrurin, who had sailed from Lisbon to find out “what it is that encloses the ocean, and what its limits are.”
They had assembled a group of eight, all kinfolk, and set out. After eleven days’ journeying westward, with a fast wind, they entered a sea choked by weed—“the waves were thick,” said the chronicle of Idrisi. They found no land and were obliged to turn back, making landfall in Africa.
By this Gwalchmai knew at last to what use Jaun had put his share of the hidden treasure and suspected how it had come about.
Curious to learn whatever she might, of anything that might be remembered of her ancient homeland, Corenice constantly chatted with Jaun in her own language. In doing so, she disregarded one important fact: Sometimes when people speak of things that interest them, they may learn from each other. Jaun had become filled with a mighty desire to see the fabled land of which she spoke so fondly.
So it was that the Basque expedition did find the fabled site of Cibola, the Golden City, and came to the continent of Atlantis, but in the end could only sail above it without knowing, becalmed in the Sargasso Sea, beneath which it lies.
As the group went on, Mairtre and Arngrim became very close. How long she had existed as a statue in the wizard’s fountain, invisible to human eyes except on Saint John’s day, when wicked enchantments fail, she never knew. The only thing she was certain about was that she had not perceptibly aged. It may have been long, but the years had not touched her and she had no doubts about accepting Arngrim’s affection.
She cast loving eyes upon him also and it was laughable to the others to see how the ways of the ugly giant had softened, although Gwalchmai and Corenice did not make fun of him. They had not been together so long that they could not realize fully how he and Mairtre saw each other.
They came down out of the mists, just as the sun was setting. They looked out over the fair lowlands of France and it was a pleasure to them to see that the mountains lay behind. There was little difference yet between the two countries, so close to the slopes.
They soon found that Basque was spoken here also, the Pyrenees being no bar to language, for a group of chattering children came by as they entered a little village and Core-nice understood most of what they said.
An ox team plodded toward them hauling a farm wagon, gay fringes hanging from their yoke, bells clanking softly. The fanner greeted the children and looked at the strangers without much surprise.
“Gaihun,” he said, and would have passed, but Corenice gave him good evening also.
“Gaihun, grandsire. We seek shelter for the night and food. We hunger and are weary with travel. Is there an inn hereabouts?”
The French Basque looked at them shrewdly and liked what he saw. Here, quite obviously, were two pleasant couples. The men appeared open-faced and, though armed and strongly built, were not brigands, for they had their ladies with them.
Judging by the rich clothes Mairtre wore, even though these were the worse for travel, the Basque felt they must have money to pay for lodging. He wondered how they might have lost their horses, but he did not overlook the fact that they carried heavy pouches and there were lumpy bundles under the jackets of both men.
He knew an opportunity when he saw one. “Soup is hot and waiting in my house for me. There is always enough for visitors. Today was baking day and we can make you pallets, but they will be on the floor. Will such beds do for you, nobles?”
They looked at one another. There was no argument.
“I could sleep on a doorstep if I had something to eat,” said Arngrim when Corenice had translated for them.
She nodded to the farmer. “Lead on. You have guests.”
They followed him homeward, down the single street of the village, to a small house with thick stone walls and a thatched roof. It had a well-tended kitchen garden and a small plot of flowers. The house was well kept and neat inside and redolent of new bread.
A word from the farmer to his wife was enough to bring out her smile and a hearty welcome. After a substantial supper and evening prayers, they made ready for sleep.
Corenice and Mairtre retired to their host’s own room, the farmer and his wife giving it up to take over their children’s cots.
The children slept, in their turn for this one night, before the fireplace, as did Gwalchmai and Arngrim. It was a crowded house.
They rose early and broke their fast on new black bread, sopped in wine, and were given two loaves to take with them.
When they were about to leave, Corenice staggered and turned pale. A dizziness came over her-and she almost fell, but she thrust away Gwalchmai’s anxious hand and caught herself. The feeling soon passed and she felt able to travel,
Gwalchmai gave the farmer one of the smaller gold coins he had already separated from the others in his pouch, at which windfall the Basque couple felt overpaid. Arngrim did the same, and Mairtre traded her fine dress for a homespun gown more suitable for travel and less conspicuous. Then they were ready for the road.
When they had gone a little way, the farmer came running after them waving a stout walking stick.
“My own makila. For the sick lady.”
Corenice thanked him and they went on. She alternately supported herself by it and leaned upon Gwalchmai when the road was rough. After a little while she stepped out strongly and their pace increased.
As they went on, traffic on the road thickened. There were few wagons, but many people were walking. Some of these were carrying sticks or staffs over their shoulders, with bundles tied upon them, and had evidently come a long way. There were knights on horseback, who bore themselves proudly and wore crosses upon their arms.
There were women and children on foot, tired and dusty, although it was still early in the day. They pushed on slowly, as though they had walked throughout most of the night and slept in the fields to hasten their reaching of the destination toward which all journeyed.
Sick and crippled were moving upon the road in company with the able, being carried in litters or riding on two-wheeled carts and barrows drawn by donkeys, mules, or even being pushed or pulled by the relatives of those who were unable to walk. It looked as though the whole of southern France was being depopulated and was moving north.
Yet obviously this crowd was not a mass of refugees fleeing before an invader. One and all—whether priest, friar, or peasant; lord, knight, or ribald; cutpurse or dewy-eyed innocent—shared a common look. It was a rapt, dedicated expression, as though their gaze was fixed upon something unearthly—something beyond the horizon, something toward which they yearned.
As it became apparent to the newcomers from Spain that they were becoming motes in a tremendous migrating stream of movement and that they rarely met anyone coming toward them, their curiosity grew.
Finally they arrived at a crossroad where one highway continued north and another ran-eastward. In this latter direction they had originally meant to travel, for that way lay Rome, where Gwalchmai had long planned to go, and afterward Byzantium -with Arngrim, in case his mission failed there.
Both of these great cities were centrally located in Christian kingdoms and both had control of snipping. Therefore, neither could be ignored if Gwalchmai was to complete his mission—to deliver his message and place Alata within the empire of a Christian ruler, although he knew now there no longer existed any Emperor of Rome.
They stopped at this crossroad and consulted on their course of action. Other tired wayfarers had fallen out for a brief rest before going on. All sat together companionably, whatever their wealth or degree, and lunched upon what they had brought.
Nearby Gwalchmai, an old man sat with a crutch across his lap. He carried with him a bag of onions and Arngrim traded a half of his loaf for four of them.
Gwalchmai gestured at the passersby. “Where is everyone going?”
The old man stopped munching and stared at him. His mouth hung open in the middle of a bite. He choked and swallowed. “Where have you been that you have not heard the wonderful news?”
“Across the mountains. What is happening?”
The cripple nodded as though that explained everything. “Of course. They are very ignorant in the hills. There are people up there that don’t know that there is another side to every mountain! But you look intelligent. Haven’t you heard of the great Crusade Pope Urban is going to tell us about? The one that Peter, the Hermit, has been preaching?”
They could only shake their heads. He looked amazed,
“I thought all the world knew about it. You do know that the Pope gives orders to all Christendom, which (Kings and Emperors obey?”
Gwalchmai did not know it, but he nodded sagely.
“There was a terrible battle, called Manzikert, and the paynim Turks won the day over the armies of Byzantium. Then the Emperor Alexius appealed to the Kings of Europe for help. Peter has roused the Teutonic lands to march, preaching, they say, as though his heart was on fire. He has seen with his own eyes how the heathen abuse our pilgrims.
“Pope Urban has come into France, from his palace in Rome, and called a mighty council at Clennont to tell us all what to do. He will surely urge us to take up the Cross and march with the Teutons in the following of our Lord, who will deliver Jerusalem. Then the end of the world will come and we will all be ready for it—those who have worn the Cross!”
“Then we shall surely do this!” heartily agreed Gwalchmai and the other three nodded. Secretly Gwalchmai thought that he must see this Pope who commanded Kings like servants. Surely, with such tremendous power and influence, he might be the man to inform of the existence of Alata and so be discharged of his mission at last.
However, this news meant to Arngrim only that if Byzantium was in such danger, he as a Varangian, the most trusted of all Byzantium’s soldiers, was far from where he should be, and the sooner he returned to take up his duties the better.
So the crossroads became a place of parting. The two women tearfully embraced and the men gripped forearms in the old Roman manner, for that much had persisted in both their pasts, even if they shared little else but comradeship.
Then each man kissed the other’s lady farewell and were soon lost forever in the press of nobles, clergy, and the ever-present poor.
It was many weary miles to Clermont, but in less than a week of travel Gwalchmai and Corenice were there, and none too soon.
There were no accommodations for late footweary travelers, and Gwalchmai wished bitterly that he were able to find some spot under a roof for Corenice to sleep. She looked tired and her face was drawn as though she was in pain, but this she denied and had marched with the best of the pilgrims. Sometimes she forced him to hurry to keep pace with her, as strong and enduring as though she still dwelt in that tireless body of metal he had first known.
It seemed to him as though she too was caught up in this enthusiastic fever of movement that had swept up all the floating population of Europe to see and hear the Pope. For verily it did appear that all Europe must be crowding into Clermont.
He bought a tarred piece of canvas at an exorbitant price, and with three poles, which should have been gold-plated so much they cost, he erected a little tent. For a few days they called it home. Many fared less well, but they did not seem to care.
When at last Pope Urban was to speak, he mounted a high scaffold where all the thousands present could see him. He stood there, a small lonely figure, and raised his arms for quiet.
At each corner of the platform, facing the cardinal points of the compass, a man stood with a leather speaking trumpet. Others were scattered in lines spaced through the crowd, to catch what was said by the Pope, to repeat it in stentorian voices where other listeners could hear and pass along the speech in the same way, until all the vast host was fully-informed.
Urban spoke slowly, with a long pause after each sentence, until he was sure he was heard and that his words had carried out to the far fringes.
He began by condemning the cowardice of the Turks and the brutalities they had inflicted upon helpless pilgrims. He continued by praising the courage and strength of Christendom’s armies, and their invincibility were they to unite in a common cause. To fight under the banner of their Lord who had died for them was the least they could do.
Then he went on to chide them for then- own evil. He brought home to them in scorching phrases the danger they faced in the loss of Heaven, until everywhere the folk went sinking to their knees and beat their breasts in remorse.
“But,” he thundered, “no sins are too heinous-to be washed away by one drop of the waters of the Jordan! No evil is too deadly to go unforgiven to those who take the Cross and smite the infidel! You are sure of success! Suffering may await you, but your reward is greater far. By the torments of your bodies, you shall redeem your souls!
“Go then, on your errand of love, which will put out of sight all the ties that bind you to the spots you have called your homes.
“Your homes, in truth, they are not. For the Christian all the world is exile, and all the world is at the same time his country. If you leave a rich patrimony here, a better patrimony awaits you in the Holy Land. They who die will enter the mansions of Heaven, while the living shall pay their vows before the sepulchre of their Lord.
