Medieval 03 - Enchanted

and hanged for the traitorous outlaw
and craven that he is.”
    “That may be true of the other
knights,” Erik said, “but their leader is rumored to
fight with the strength and skill of three men.”
    “Aye,” Sven said. “Three of the
northern lord’s knights tried to kill him. He killed two of
them before he fled. The third nearly died of his
wounds.”
    “Have you talked to the one who
survived?” Dominic asked.
    “Aye,” Erik said. “A wise woman
is nursing him back to health in a hamlet just beyond the western
boundary of Stone Ring Keep’s land.”
    “What did the wounded knight say?”
    “He could barely talk,” Sven said.
“He was half out of his mind with wound fever.”
    “He said that the renegade is the greatest
warrior the Disputed Lands has ever known,” Erik said.
    “What of Duncan, the Scots Hammer?”
Dominic asked mildly. “Or Erik, called the
Undefeated?”
    “The Scots Hammer brought me down,”
Erik said.
    “And there sits Dominic, who defeated the
Scots Hammer,” Sven pointed out. “Surely Dominic is
greater than this devil knight.”
    “Any man may be defeated,” Cassandra
said. “Any man may be victorious. It depends on the man, the
weapon, and the reason for fighting.”
    “This one fights for bloodlust, plunder, and
rape,” Erik said.
    His tone said that the pattern he had found
surrounding the renegade knight was loathsome.
    “Unfortunately, the spawn of Satan fights
like an archangel,” Sven said.
    “Did the wounded knight get close enough to
see his attacker?” Dominic asked.
    Sven gave a lithe shrug. “Aye, but he saw
only his own defeat rushing down. To hear him, the renegade is a
giant among men, with the burning eyes of a demon.”
    “Red, I presume,” Dominic said
dryly.
    “What?” asked Sven.
    “His eyes.”
    “No. Blue.”
    Dominic sighed. “Well, we know it isn’t
Simon or Erik. That leaves perhaps four score blue-eyed warriors
for us to consider.”
    “We won’t be long in wondering,”
Erik said. “My peregrine spotted strange knights beyond the
west side of Stone Ring.”
    “The west side?” Dominic shot to his
feet. “Are you certain?”
    “Aye,” Erik said. “That’s
why we came back here so quickly. We needed armor and
war-horses.”
    “God’s teeth,” snarled Dominic as
he ran toward the armory. “Simon and Ariane are hawking for
partridge west of Stone Ring!”
    “Who went with them?” called Erik.
    “No one. Not even a squire!”
    Sven and Erik didn’t ask any more questions.
They simply followed the Glendruid Wolf to the armory at a dead
run.

12
    B rightly colored fleets of leaves
sailed toward the distant sea on creeks the color of battle swords.
Tawny weeds and grasses bent low to the ground beneath the wind,
their heads heavy with the weight of next year’s life. Oak,
beech, and rowan trees bowed leaf-stripped branches as an invisible
river of air rushed by. Wind sent ragged white cloud banners flying
from the distant peaks. The sky between the clouds was a blue as
deep as the treasured lapis lazuli brought back from the Saracen
lands.
    But it was the sun that ruled the day. The sun was
an incandescent golden disk that burned with angelic purity.
    Covertly, Simon studied his wife in the rich autumn
light. She sat her mare with the elegance and ease that had
beguiled him on the hard ride from Blackthorne to Stone Ring Keep.
To his surprise, her Learned dress had proved to be quite suited
for riding. It didn’t flap or fly or climb or hinder.
    If it hadn’t been made of cloth, Simon would
have called the dress well behaved.
    The fabric fascinated him. The longer he looked at
it, the more he thought he saw… something …woven into the very warp and
weft.
    A woman .
    Her hair is darkest midnight,
her head is thrown back in abandon, her body is drawn on
passion’s sweet rack .
    With a soft sound, Simon looked more closely.
    Her mouth calls a man’s
name, pleading that he lie within her and share the wild
ecstasy .
    Then the woman’s head turned and amethyst
eyes looked out at Simon.
    Ariane .
    Suddenly the cloth shifted, revealing another facet
of the weaving.
    A shape that could be a man.
He is bending down to Ariane, drinking her passion, flowing over
her ….
    Yes. A man .
    But who ?
    The shape changed, becoming more dense, more real,
almost tangible. The man’s head began to turn toward
Simon.
    “What is that?” Ariane asked, pointing
to her left. “There, where the hill rises most steeply