The Knight

“Here I am,” I called, and trotted over to him, wet to the skin and nearly blown off my feet the minute I left the barn.

The stick found me, and he tried to give me his bundle. “Come lookin’ for you last night, but you wasn’t there. In the barn, you said, and I poked everywhere and called your name, only I never could find you.”

“I was in the hayloft, asleep.” I felt a sudden shame. “I should have thought about you. I’m sorry.”

He took me by the arm. “You hurt my master?”

“I tried to. I think I broke a bone in his hand.”

“Then you got to get away!” A flash of lightning showed Bold Berthold’s contorted face and the empty sockets that had held kind brown eyes.

“Was he the one who blinded you?”

“Don’t matter. He’ll kill you!”

‘“It does matter. Was it?”

“They all do it.” His voice shook with urgency. “You got to run. Now!”

“No. You’ve got to get me into the house. Into the kitchen would be best.”

There were half a dozen knives in there, but they were of a size for the trembling women who served Bymir and not for Bymir himself, knives hardly bigger than my dagger.

“He’s coming,” one of the women called as I rummaged through a clattering drawer; and in desperation I snatched a spit long enough for oxen from a vast fireplace. One end was offset to make a crank, the other sharp so it could be run through the carcasses. I put that end into the glowing coals, feeling the sea of battle pounding in my veins, and waiting for the storm.

When Bymir lumbered through the doorway at last, his groin was level with my eyes; I rammed the sharp end of the spit into it.

When he bent double, into his throat.

He would have fallen on me, if I had not jumped to one side. When I got the spit out, I saw that he had bent it a little in falling. I straightened it over my knee.

“Was that him?” Bold Berthold gasped. “That what fell?”

The women (there were three, all slatternly and thin) assured him it had been.

I had taken hold of Bymir’s left boot and pulled the leg straight. “He doesn’t seem so big now that he’s lying here.”

“Lookit the blood,” one of the women whispered. “Don’t slip in it, sir.”

“I’ll try not to.” I had been avoiding the seething mess anyway for the sake of my boots, although I was tempted to stamp on the ugly little creatures that swam in it. “Four and a half steps. I’m going to say a yard for each step, so he was thirteen and a half feet tall, or about that. It’s good to know.”

I turned to face Bold Berthold, laying my hand on his shoulder. “I have to go to Utgard, as I told you last night, but I’ll come back as quick as I can. In the meantime, I want you and these women to cut up this body and get rid of it in any way that works. If other Angrborn ask ...”

“Yes, lad. What is it?”

“The wind. The wind is in the chimney.”

A wild north wind moaned there as I spoke, as though it had heard me. “In a storm like this’n? ’Tis a big chimney, sir, an’ the wind always gets in there.”

“I’ve got to go. Gylf’s gone already, it seems. After the Valfather’s pack, though I didn’t hear them tonight. Is my horse still in the barn?”

“‘Spose so, sir. Found it there when I was lookin’ for you. Your saddle’s there, too.”

“I’ll come back as soon—as soon as I do.” I snatched the rag-wrapped bundle Bold Berthold been holding, clamped it under my arm, and dashed out into the storm again.

The nearest wood, I felt sure, had been the one where Gerda and Bold Berthold had met; I recalled that it had been on the side of the house opposite the barn. Keeping the wind to my left as well as I could, I spurred the stallion until water and mud exploded from under his hooves.

Lightning showed me moss-grown trunks, and I shouted for Disiri. There was no reply, but the rain stopped.

Not slacked, but stopped altogether. No lightning flashed, no thunder boomed, and no icy drops fell from the leaves above my head even when I stirred them with my hand. The darkness remained; but it was darkness less black than green. From the slope of some far mountain, a wolf howled.

I rode on, and crossed a purling silver stream that was never the small river of Jotunland. No sun rose, and no stars shone; yet the green dark seemed to fade. Although the air around me hung motionless save where my breath disturbed it, a wind soughed among the treetops, chanting a thousand names. Among them, both of mine.

I reined up to listen, and rose in the stirrups to be nearer the sound. “Walewein, Wace, Vortigern, Kyot.

The names that I had heard, my own, were not repeated.

“Yvain, Gottfried, Eilhart, Palamedes, Duach, Tristan, Albrecht, Caradoc ...”

Someone was running toward me—running, stumbling, and running again. I heard the runner’s gasps and sobs before the leaves parted and a teenager with staring eyes and torn clothes stumbled through to cling to my boot.

“Who are you?” I asked.

His mouth opened and closed, but only sobs came out.