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armouredantiquarian · 1 year ago

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@rustchild

I liked this back in October, found it inspiring, started writing, kept dipping in and out of it, sort-of forgot where I was going with it, and I think it's ended up more magical realist (does that apply to Arthuriana?) than properly surreal, but... Yeah. Here, have a thing.

It was quiet in the marsh, for the most part. There was little there to make noise, beyond the croaking of frogs, the occasional booming of the great black herons that stalked the pools, and the soft sounds of movement of those and other, quieter creatures.

These sounds twisted through the mist, emerging warped, muted, hanging in the air above their damp domain. Then new sounds arrived, disrupting the background hum, and drawing the toads and newts from their muddy beds to turn sullen eyes [footnote: not sullen because they were toads and newts, which are no more naturally sullen than any other animal. Some are quite lively. But these ones were sullen, largely on account of where they lived] to see who disturbed their peace.

The dull beat of hooves on soft earth joined by the bright jingling of harness, both of horse and platemail, was the prelude to the appearance of two figures.

"Any idea how much further it is?" asked the first figure, 8 foot tall, slender of leg and stout of middle, with three heads rising from their shoulders. As the fog rolled back, this strange sight resolved itself into two people sat on one horse.

The first of the two rode tall in the saddle, a broad chest bearing bright armour topped with a surcoat emblazoned with an eagle within a sunburst within a shield, clutching 3 arrows in one talon, a lantern in the other, a sword in its beak, and an expression as confused as whatever idea this device was supposed to symbolise. He wore the visor of his helm up, revealing a face that would have been very handsome, had it not been for an ill-advised moustache that drooped down the sides of his mouth. It might have worked on an older man, but on him it simply distracted from his otherwise admirable cheekbones, strong jaw and bright green eyes.

Behind him sat a shorter figure, armoured in ringmail, but without the plumed helm, but with surcoat marking them as a Squire of Camelot in service to this knight- which, unfortunately for them meant that it was quartered, bearing two of the overworked eagles, and two of the royal crest of Camelot. They had delicate features, with a sharp chin and fine nose, and a mass of brown curls peeking out beneath their sallet helm.

"I believe the villagers said it was two days ride, my liege, and we only set off this morning",

This voice came from behind, and was followed shortly by its speaker; a Monk, riding a donkey. He was tonsured, and wore a simple brown habit, though a heavy mace hung from his white rope belt. He had soft features and a gentle expression, but his loose robes did not conceal his powerful build

"Did they? Oh. Well, look for somewhere to make camp. An opportunity is not to be missed with ground like this."

The figures receded back in to the mist, and the toads and newts sank back in to the mire.

"Forsooth! A tree! That should mean solid ground, wouldn't you say, Brother?" said the Knight, pointing. The Monk ran a critical eye over the gnarled and twisted thing that stuck out of the ground like a broken bone through flesh.

"So it would seem," he replied cautiously, prodding at the solid-seeming ground with a sandaled foot.

"Though I cannot help but think of certain trees of the Orient which can eat a man whole in his sleep," the Monk continued.

The Knight squinted at the mostly-dead-looking tree, and jabbed at it with his sword, cautiously first, then harder.

"If so, it seems uninclined to defend itself." he said.

"Wouldn't it be too cold?" asked the Squire

"Why would It be any colder here than in the rest of the marsh?" asked the Knight.

"No, I mean for the tree. Isn't it hotter in the Orient? So would it be too cold for their plants to grow here?"

The Monk thought for a moment.

"Quite possibly," He replied "There is some debate as to whether they are strictly vegetable or in some measure deamoniac, so it may depend. Although, even then, depending on the nature of the spirit and where in hell they normally reside…" The Monk and Squire fell to discussing spiritual matters, and the knight smiled at their passionate discussion as they made camp.

Having set up their tents and sundry other requisites, but it being too early yet for the evening meal, they set to on foraging for whatever they could find in the dismal morass to supplement their rations.

The squire stuck their hand into a pale cluster of leaves and pulled a carrot out of the damp earth - then blushed as they saw the rather distinctive shape. The Knight and the Monk coughed and looked away.

The Monk tried next. "Ah! There, an ordinary potato!"

The Squire made a strangled noise and blushed harder.

The Knight coughed. "Ah... Turn it sideways... No, upright. You see, Brother?"

"I must confess I do not, my liege"

"Well, it strongly resembles a certain... Well, a woman's ah... Well..."

The monk rotated the potato.

"Really?" He glanced reflexively in the direction of the Squire, who was bright pink and staring determinedly in the other direction.

"Hm" He tossed it away, once again wondering about the choices of his fellow men.

"I shall try," announced the Knight

"Surely this wretched marsh must be running out of obscenities with which to taunt us", he said, plunging a mailed gauntlet in to the earth, and pulled out a root, twisted beyond recognition in to the words 'Fuck You', in thick, tuberous, tendril-y letters.

"It seems our tormentor does not possess the wits to fuel their wit," the Knight quipped, pretending to himself that the Monk and Squire started laughing after he said that, not before.

"So… mash?" Suggested the Squire.

"I think that's probably best," agreed the Monk.

A short while later the sun set, pale and watery through the enduring mist, while the three travellers huddled round a smoky campfire, with a simmering pot of stew hanging from an iron tripod above it. The Knight sharpened and honed his sword, the Squire cleaned and polished the Knight's armour, and the Monk hummed a hymn (He Holds The World In Mighty Hands, But Gently Lest He Break It) while tending the fire and the stew.

"What do you make of this marsh, Brother? It seems… unnatural… to me," the Knight asked, not breaking the silence, for the evening was already full of the sounds of the marsh creatures, as well as the activities of the camp.

The Monk nodded sagely.

"The villagers did say that they lose more farmland every year."

The Knight nodded as well, trying to look as sage as the Monk, and failing as his visor fell down over his face.

"And that's faster than usual?" He asked, pushing it back up.

The Monk and Squire exchanged a familiar glance, encountering another strange gap in their leader's knowledge.

"It does not normally happen at all, my liege." answered the Squire, whose parents were farmers.

"Really? The land doesn't get…used up?"

"Uh… no, my liege"

The Knight accepted a rough wooden bowl of rough tuberous stew, heavily flavoured with dried sage, from the Monk who was now serving it up.

"Then why do cities keep getting bigger? Surely no one builds on good farmland?

And so the Monk and the Squire explained to the Knight that this was not how farming worked or why cities got bigger, and he was much amazed at their words, though he pretended that he was not.

So they finished their supper and rested for the night, the Squire taking the first watch. Soon the Monk and the Knight were fast asleep, and the Squire sat beneath the great canopy of night, and the rather more modest one of the dead tree. The moon was a distant blur behind the mist, which seemed thinner now the sun had set, and the stars were smeared in to a gentle luminous haze. Where pools of water stood they reflected the dim glow of the sky in streaks and splashes, darting the marsh with threads of silver.

The Squire was just beginning to appreciate the beauty of the scene when a great and terrible groaning rent the night. The Squire shivered as the sound faded away, though the others did not wake.

As the sound seemed far away, they merely banked the fire to comfort themselves, and left their companions sleeping.

A little while later a great owl flew down out of the darkness, and settled in the of the tree. Long sharp talons gripped a branch, dark speckled wings were shaken and furled, and two luminous orange eyes were turned towards the Squire. The Squire observed it for a while, but it did nothing else, so they resumed their watch. The Squire did their best to ignore its stare as it remained there, watching the Squire as they kept their watch. Eventually, growing bored, the Squire spoke to the owl, and asked "Good sir owl, what do you want?"

And the owl replied;

"It is not what I want, young Squire, but what you want. Tell me what you most desire"

The Squire was rather surprised by this, and gave the owl a hard look. It looked like a fairly normal owl, though not one of a kind the Squire recognised.

The Squire pondered on the question, and whether or not to answer a talking owl, and deciding that honesty was never wrong, answered truthfullly; 'To become a knight of virtue and high renown, sir owl'.

The owl hooted and ruffled it's feathers.

"A worthy answer, young Squire. Would you like my guidance on the path to accomplishing this?"

The Squire considered.

"I will hear your guidance," they replied, "though I make no promise of anything in return"

"I ask for nothing," said the owl, "but hear: take up your master's sword, and slay him and the Monk as they sleep. Return to the village, telling them that you confronted the magician, but were overmatched, and that you alone escaped fighting clear of their conjured servants. It will not be a heroes' return, but it will be a return of note, and there will be a seat empty at the Round Table for the taking. If you do this, I guarantee it will be yours."

The Squire was much troubled by this, and looked towards where their companions slept, their gaze falling first and longest on the gently snoring figure of the Monk.

"Sir owl, is there no other way to attain my goal?"

"None so swift or sure," replied the owl.

Then the Squire was heavy of heart, and weighed the owl's words carefully.

"Nay, sir owl, I shall not do this thing. For I would know of my misdeeds, and could not count myself a knight of virtue." The Squire did not speak of their desire for the Monk, though this also stayed their hand.

Then the owl shrieked in anger.

"Do not seek to conceal your desires from me! Since you have refused my wisdom, and tried to conceal for longing for your companion, you shall loose both your desires!" And so saying the owl flew away in to the darkness.

The Monk, stirred from sleep by the shriek of the owl but not having heard the conversation, roused himself, and asked the Squire what was happening. The Squire, much discomfited, reassured the Monk that it had only been an owl, which was not untrue. And they exchanged watches, for the time to do so was near.

Once the Squire was asleep, there came again that great and terrible groan, and like the Squire, the Monk shook with fright, but saw that his companions were undisturbed. And the Monk took up his cross and prayed to Jesus, and Jesus said to him "Don't worry about it. It sounds pretty far off, and I'll protect you from evil magics and conjurations". And the Monk was comforted, and gave thanks, and put a little more wood on the fire for entirely unrelated reasons.

A while later the owl returned, and the Monk greeted it, saying "well now, Brother Owl, are you the same owl the Squire spoke of, or another?"

And to his amazement the owl replied:

"I am the same, and I say to you as I said to him; what do you desire?"

The Monk was much surprised by this, partly because the owl had spoken, and partly because the Squire had not mentioned this.

And the Monk replied

"That is a good question, for I desire many things. First, I desire to know what manner of spirit are you that goes about in the form of a creature, yet can speak, and asks such questions."

The owl hooted in a manner that may have been a laugh.

"I am no spirit, Brother. Do you not recall Balaam's ass?"

Seeing that the owl knew scripture, the Monk relented.

"in truth, brother owl, I am a man of many small desires. The taste of good food and drink, the comfort of a good bed; the colours of sunrise as the dawn chorus signs, as I join my brothers in prayer, and the fellowship of good companions."

At this he could not help but gaze at the sleeping Knight a little longer than was seemly.

The owl ruffled it's feathers.

"Truly I tell you, if you wish to keep company with your friends, you must persuade them all to turn back, else you shall all surely die at the hands of the sorcerer," it said.

"A dire warning, brother owl. Are they truly so powerful?" asked the Monk, who was in equal part afraid lest it be true, and angry, lest the owl had underestimated the company.

"Verily! I tell you true, there is no hope if you proceed on your quest," the owl answered.

The Monk paused to consult God, and God said

"Don't forget that Satan quoted scripture when he tempted Christ in the wilderness. Do not assume a messenger is mine, just because they know my word."

And the Monk, reinvigorated, answered the owl saying:

"Begone, o spirit of discouragement! If we are to die, it shall be as martyrs on a holy quest and to the glory of God; but we shall not, for God is with us, and He has just warned me not to trust you!"

At the saying of this, the owl looked somewhat surprised, then angry, and again screeched and took to the air, saying:

"Then you are all doomed! Doomed!"

As the Monk watched the owl disappear in to the dark, he heard a yawn behind him.

"Good morrow, Brother. Is it time to change watch already?"

The Monk greeted the Knight, for it was he who had awoken, and informed him that the hour was indeed nigh, for it was so. He said nothing of the owl, for the Knight did not ask, and the Monk ever keen to make a good impression on the Knight, did not wish to appear foolish by speaking of talking animals.

They had the sort of conversation one has at the small hours of the morning while changing watch in a marsh, and the Monk returned to his mat to sleep, while the Knight settled himself to wait for dawn.

Presently the Monk fell asleep, and the same terrible groan rent the air once more, and again those asleep remained undisturbed. The Knight, hearing it, said to himself "It must be some great unknown beast! What a shame I have not my hunting spear, and must keep watch, else I might ride forth to find it. Also, it is cold, and that is the only reason I am shivering just now." He went to bank the fire, but finding the wood running low merely held his sword a little tighter.

Not long after, the owl appeared for the third time. Now the Knight, being less curious about the world than the Squire and less contemplative of the fellowship of all creatures than the Monk, simply noted it's arrival, and said nothing.

The owl shuffled closer to him on the tree and hooted, and still the Knight ignored.

The owl coughed. The Knight looked up, as he had never heard an owl cough before. Perhaps he had imagined it.

The owl coughed again.

"Ahem!"

But, the Knight thought to himself, he didn't know much about owls, so perhaps that was normal.

"Well, I didn't know they did that," he said to himself.

"I'll wager you didn't know we could talk either," replied the owl, who had been waiting for an opportunity.

The Knight eyed the owl suspiciously, for he was fairly sure they did not.

"I did not know this, no" he replied

"Ha! Then I have won the wager" said the owl.

"We had agreed no terms," replied the Knight, "but I grant you were correct"

"The prize I claim will cost you nothing, for it is only this: tell me what you desire"

The Knight thought for a while, then answered

"To capture or kill the sorcerer, and leave this marsh"

The owl stared at him.

"That is all? What about after that?"

"I don't know. I'll have a new quest then."

"So all you desire is the completion of your quests?"

"I suppose so. I've never really thought about it very much."

"Is that a deeper desire to be good at questing? Or a good Knight in general?"

"Probably. I don't think I've ever really wanted anything else very much."

The Knight couldn't help but glance briefly at where the Squire was sleeping, thinking of the one other hill of desire in the otherwise flat landscape of his psyche. The owl looked back and forth between the three sleepers, and sighed.

"You don't want to run off with your Squire?"

"What? No! Well, sort of. Yes. It sounds nice, but I don't think they want that," the Knight sighed.

"What if I told you I could make them want that?" asked the owl, slyly.

"How? Woo them with my amazing talking owl? Don't be silly. Anyway, if it isn't real, and I haven't won them over myself, I don't want it. No," said the Knight, folding his arms.

"Surely there is something you want other than to complete your current quest?"

The Knight thought for a while.

"I would like to do just as well in the next quest, too."

"I give up, you're all too stupid to tempt", and with that the owl flew off in a sulk, and in to the first pale fingers of dawn, which were stretching over the horizon somewhere behind the fog.

"What a strange animal," said the Knight. And so he began preparing breakfast for the companions, before rousing his fellow questors.

The three ate a simple meal of bread and cheese, as the morning sun struggled to warm them through the pallid veil of the mist. Or, as the Squire contented, fog, and they and the Monk set to debating which it was, and what the differences were. The Knight had no opinion, save that they were both unpleasant and rusted his armour, and simply listened, amused, to the verbal sparring of his companions.

Having finished their meal, the companions broke camp and resumed their journey, though the ground was now firmer underfoot, and the stagnant pools gave way to scrubby shrubbery, and then to a dense wood, as dark as pitch and tangled as corpse-hair. As they crossed the treeline in to the wood, the great groaning shook the air once more, and the three companions rode a little closer together.

The Squire broke the silence that had descended upon the little troupe, saying

"I heard that same sound last night. Think you it might be some beast of the forest?"

"I think it must. I heard it last night too, and was surprised a beast big enough to make such a noise could live on that marsh; but I'm sure this forest could support such a creature." replied the Knight.

The Monk, who had been troubled since last night by a thought, spoke up.

"I too heard that groaning. It may be a beast, but there are some forms of magic, practiced by the Greeks and Egyptians, that involve a great mystic groaning"

The Knight chuckled somewhat at the phrase, then stopped and blushed when the Squire gave them a quizzical look.

"Be it beast or conjurer, I have no doubt we shall be a match for it," he said, moving the subject along before he could be asked to explain.

"Lord willing, we shall prevail," concurred the Monk.

The strange sound echoed through the forest again, and the three rode on in tense silence.

After a little while they came to a river, dense with the roots of nearby trees and sluggish with rotting vegetation, a thick grey-green band of decay through the dark wood. Although slow, it was too wide and deep to safely cross, as the Squire proved with a long branch that didn't reach the bottom, but that came back dripping with dank green weed.

Turning upstream to the east, where the river ran closer to their direction of travel

Where the river curved towards the distant tower.

After travelling a while longer, the three companions came to a broad and shallow ford, where the water ran a little faster over a bed of large loose stones, slick with dank green weed . Seeing no better place to cross, they spurred their horses forward, but as soon as their hooves hit the water, a knight emerged from the woods on the other side, and charged at them so furiously, the hooves of his steed cutting up the ground and foam flying from its mouth, that they were obliged to turn back to face him on solid ground. Yet when they did so, he too turned back, taking up a position on the other side of the ford, water dripping from the ankles of his steed.

"Good sir knight, why do you bar our way?" the Knight hailed the stranger, but answer came there none.

"Very well then," said the Knight, and started toward the ford once more.

The other horseman made no move until the Knight's horse had all four hooves in the water, then again started to charge, surging forth in to the ford, lance couched and a plain wooden shield raised. The Knight lowered his lance in answer, and the two met so fiercely that both their lances were shivered to pieces, splinters flying and both reeling in the saddle, though neither was unseated. While the Knight's horse struggled to keep her footing in the ford, the stranger's horse had no such problem, and again the Knight was driven back.

No sooner had they returned to the shore, but the stranger dropped the remains of their lance to the ground. There it took root and sprouted in to a tree, which grew fast, tall and slender, reaching up to his outstretched hand, then past. It grew in to a small ash tree, and when the stranger took hold of it the branches fell away, and the trunk split, leaving a perfectly formed lance in his hand.

"Hm. I wish mine did that," said the Knight, ignoring the odd noise the Monk made, simply dismounting and taking up his spear and shield, with his sword in its scabbard at his hip.

He set forth toward the ford, and the Monk and Squire were much alarmed, counselling against such action, saying

"Sir, he is enchanted and horsed, while you are on foot. Surely you cannot face him alone."

And the Knight replied;

"I shall not face him alone, for you are here with me. Squire, be ready to throw me my second spear. And Brother, pray for our success."

As he stepped in to the water the stranger spurred forth his horse and couched his lance, and the Knight crouched behind his shield and made ready to meet him with his spear.

At the last moment, the Knight leapt to the side, and threw his spear the head of his foe's horse, so as to make it shy away.

But the horse did not flinch, and the spear stuck fast in its neck, though there was no blood and it made no sound. The Monk and Squire gasped in shock, but the Knight held firm, calling to the Squire for his second spear.

The Squire, regaining their nerve, threw the spear to the Knight, who as quick as thought, struck at the stranger, who's horse had started to sink silently beneath him, and dashed him from his saddle.

The Knight allowed the stranger to rise and draw his sword, and asked him

"Now we stand as equals, will you answer me? To what end do you bar our way?", but as the stranger turned they saw that the Knight had struck him so mightily that the visor had been wrenched from his helm. But beneath the helm the stranger had no face, and showed no sign of harm.

The Faceless Stranger gave no reply and simply struck at the Knight, striking down at his helm, forcing him back in a hurried defence.

The Knight was the faster and more skilled of the two, but the stranger did not tire, and moved as though he were not stood in the ford, but on dry land. The stranger slowly drove the Knight back towards the riverbank, till he was almost out of the water.

At this the Knight, who had been waiting for this opportunity, sprang back on to the firm ground, then leapt forward bearing his foe to the ground and hurling both their swords away behind him.

Pinning the Stranger beneath his own shield, the Knight unlaced his foe's helm with his dagger, and this too was hurled away, yet still the empty armour moved and fought. Cutting away more lacing, the Knight severed the right arm, almost losing his balance in the water and again throwing it behind him. As he began to do the same to the left arm he head a cry behind him, for the severed arm had continued to move, and was now crawling towards the Monk, who had cried out. The Squire leapt forward, seizing the arm and bundling it in to an empty bag, holding it aloft in triumph as the sack writhed and twisted.

"Brother! What manner of sorcery is this?" the Knight called out, throwing the other arm on to the far bank.

"I know not! But I shall pray that we prevail over it," the Monk replied, and began to pray.

The Knight, meanwhile, cut the laces on the cuisses, and flung the legs to the far side of the ford, before wading back with the breastplate and brassart.

Regaining the shore, the Knight threw down the armour, and sat himself down beside it, sore weary from battle.

As he sat, and the Monk and Squire readied to tend to his wounds, they all observed a thick grey smoke coiling from the harness, reaching toward the bag with the severed arm which the Squire had hung from the branch of a nearby tree. The Knight sprang to his feet, hauling away the armour, while the Squire grabbed the bag. The Monk drew forth a vial of holy water and, reciting a prayer of exorcism, dashed it against the breastplate. The smoke twisted and coiled, and quelled, but did not dissipate, lying still and languid, rolling forth in slow lazy coils. At the same time the bag in the Squire's arms stilled and ceased its struggles.

"This is a stubborn foe! Do they not know when they are bested?" said the Squire, returning with the arm in the bag.

"It seems not," replied the Knight, "What do you make of it, Brother?"

"I know not, my liege. It may take some time for me to find the right payers and incantations to release this spirit"

"I fear we do not have the time to tarry. Is there anything that you can do that may be quicker?"

The Monk pondered the Knight's question.

"Nothing I can call to mind. I shall pray upon it. One moment…"

And so the Monk knelt in prayer and asked Jesus for guidance.

Jesus sat on a nearby stump.

"Hello. How's it going? I see the problem, but there's nothing more I can do for you with this one right now. There are reasons, but I can't tell you what they are either for… well, the same reasons actually. All a bit circular, I'm afraid. But you're closer to a solution than you might think. Hope that helps!"

The Monk accepted this advice, or lack thereof, with grace.

"The Lord says the answer is at hand, though he has not revealed it to me. Might we tie them up in the meantime?"

"Ah-ha! What if we tie the parts to the trees?" suggested the Squire.

"That's a good idea! Good work, both of you," said the Knight, giving the Squire a squeeze on the shoulder and the Monk a warm look. They set to on tying the more mobile pieces of armour to a number of trees, while the Monk tried to find excuses to be near the Knight in case there was any more physical contact to be had. [Footnote: there was not].

Completing their work swiftly, leaving the twitching limbs and smoking breastplate lashed to a different tree each, and having made sure the Knight's horse was still fit, they resumed travel, the Squire joining the Monk on his donkey for a while arguing that the Knight's horse needed a little rest. The Knight objected somewhat, but judged it unseemly to protest too much, lest his feelings be too plainly known.

With the tower lost to view behind the canopy of the trees they picked their way through the dense woods, careful to stick to the straightest route, for there was no path here, and the villagers had said nothing about a forest.

"This must all be the product of some transformative magic. This sorcerer must be potent indeed." The Monk said grimly.

The Knight eyed the trees suspiciously.

"Might any of these be dangerous, as you thought that one in the marsh might have been?" he asked.

"They look like alders to me, and I think there were some willows back by the river," said the Squire.

"Hmm. Do alders… signify anything?" asked the Knight.

"Wet soil?" suggested the Squire

The Monk cleared his throat.

"Ah, well, ancient tradition says they are a bad omen when travelling, or may be the home of fairies. For example, the tale of one Monffery of Geoffmouth, relates how…"

Sometime later they emerged from the woods in to a small clearing, and found the tower before them.

"Ha, see, we have found it! Just like your Chilled Romland, or whoever it was, Brother," the Knight exclaimed. While the Monk's tale had kept him from dwelling as they picked their way through the forest, he was glad enough to have an excuse to end it.

The ground was firmer here, though still soft underfoot, and grass and wildflowers rose to knee-hight across the clearing toward the grey stone tower, six storeys of rough hewn blocks below a pointed red-tiled roof. The tower tapered slightly as it rose, though it seemed sized for only a single large room at each floor, with the walls thinning toward they rose.

Crossing the clearing, they found the stout doors were locked and barred against them, and the only windows were high above.

Picking their way through the dense wood, the tower now lost from sight amid the trees

They made a circle of the tower, but found no other windows or entrances within reach. After a moment of conference, the Knight knocked hard on the door. There came no answer. The Knight knocked again, this time with the blade of his axe, but the blade sprang from the wood as though it had been rebuffed by , toppling the Knight to the ground.

"I think the door might be enchanted," said the Squire.

"I believe you are correct," said the Knight, sitting up.

"I may be able to break the spell, but it could take some time," the Monk offered.

"What about that window?" suggested the Squire, pointing to a narrow window some way above the door.

"I do not think I can fit through there, even if I could reach it," the Knight replied, shaking his head.

"I can reach it, and I believe I can fit through," said the Squire, swinging their grappling hook and their hips. The Monk eyed both critically, the Knight with curiosity.

"Worth a try," the Knight said, with a careful nonchalance.

The Squire stepped up, whirling the grapple, and threw it up at the window. At the first throw it was too low, and bounced off the sill. The second was true, but found no purchase. The third throw was true and strong, breaking through the pane and finding purchase within.

"There!" the Squire exclaimed triumphantly. They looped the rope around themselves, then turned to the Monk.

"Brother, would you help with the knot? If you could hold that… perfect, thank you."

The Squire stepped back, smiling, while the Monk glanced toward the Knight, who was studiously checking his axe blade for damage from the enchanted door.

The Squire began to climb the tower by means of the rope, while the Knight and the Monk waited below, preparing

themselves to assist as best they could and checking on their companion's progress without staring at them.

The Squire reached the top, and pulled themselves in, avoiding the broken glass. Finding themselves in an empty room, and no immediate danger, they relaxed, both from the tension of the climb in to the unknown, and at being alone for the first time in many days. While the absence of guards in the room suggested none were present in the tower, it being unlikely that the Squire could have climbed the rope quicker than guards could have used the stairs up or down, it would be folly to assume they were safe. So thinking to themselves, they drew their sword, and took closer stock of their surroundings. The room occupied the whole first floor of the tower, and appeared to be little more than a store room, being full of barrels and boxes stacked around the walls and in the centre. Spying a gap opposite the visible staircase, the Squire reasoned this must be the stairs down, and set forth. Upon descending the stairs, the Squire found themselves not by the door but in a room resembling a kitchen, with a plethora of dried herbs hanging from hooks in the beams, and a large bench following the curve of the wall round fully half the room.

"Curious," thought the Squire.

"I thought by the height of the rooms there could be only one below. And indeed, this room too has windows, though I entered by the lowest window visible. What trickery is this?" so thinking, they descended again.

Once again they found themselves not by the door, but this time in a library, with concentric circles of bookshelves filling the space, with just enough width to walk between.

"Well then. This is certainly a most unusual tower. For one thing, I am quite sure there were but three floors, and I have found neither the door, nor the top."

Seeing there were windows above the shelves against the outer wall, the Squire climbed up, taking care not to damage the books, and peered out. They were amazed to see they were high up, at least 6 floors, and could see the Knight and the Monk pacing back and forth below.

Deciding to return to their companions, the Squire went up the stairs back to the window they came in through. As they went to look out and shout down to their companions, a thought occurred to them; if going down the stairs had lead them up, and going up had brought them back down here, what if they continued 'up'? So thinking they tried the other stairs, and found themselves before the door, in a high-ceilinged chamber with two statues of knights stood by the door, and two by the base of the stairs.

Hurrying forth, the Squire removed the bar from the door, an swung it open for their companions.

"Hail, friends! Be welcome, and enter!"

The Knight stepped forth; and having been invited, did not trigger the defensive enchantments.

"Follow me well, for this tower is other than it appears. The stairs up go down, and down goes up, and there are more floors than it first appears" the Squire said to the others.

The Monk and Knight exchanged a look, wondering whether the Squire spoke true and the tower was as they said, or if their mind had been mazed by some strange power. Trusting their companion, the Monk and the Knight followed the Squire to the stairs that seemed to lead down in to an improbably located basement. down, rather than up.

As they reached the centre of the room, the four statues lurched in to motion, stone joints grinding and scraping, and closed in on the trio.

"Damn, I thought we'd got away with that," said the Squire.

"Oh, is that why you invited us in like that?" asked the Monk, flexing his mace arm.

The Squire shrugged.

"I thought it might help," they answered.

"Less chatting, more chopping!" shouted the Knight. Like the Monk he had chosen a warhammer, rather than risk chipping his sword, and was busy knocking chunks off the closest of the four. They were slower than the hollow knight at the ford, but heavy and implacable, and the Knight had to duck, weave, dip, dive and dodge around the terrible blows they swung.

Seeing their companion hard at work in the fight, the other two dived in. Taking a cue from the others, the Squire reversed their sword and struck with the quillions, though they rapidly concluded this helped little.

The Knight was slowly but surely overmatching his foe, and the Monk while less adept than the Knight, had managed to break the stone blade of his foe, levelling the field considerably. The Squire, who had been aiding the Monk, now saw the other two closing in. They darted forth to one, jabbing and striking it, then leaping away to distract the other, keeping both from the backs of their friends.

The Monk and Knight dispatched their foes; the Knight struck the head from his, and the statue went still, while the Monk had simply smashed away at the limbs of his adversary until it was harmless. They turned in time to see the Squire run out of space between the two they had been distracting, and for two stone blades to swing inexorably towards them.

The blades struck, stone shattered, and each statue fell to the blade of the other, cut down with a brutal overswing. Monk and Knight cried out for their friend, but were too far away to reach them till the blow was struck.

The pile of rubble which lay between the shattered torsos covered the body of the Squire. Until the pile coughed and shifted, as the Squire crawled forwards, then stood and grinned as they shook the dust from themselves.

"Ah, good, you two are alright. Well done." they said, then sat down heavily on the floor.

After a moment of rest, and ensuring they were all uninjured, the Monk and Knight helped the Squire to their feet, and all three headed to the next floor, passing through each till they reached the library. As they passed through the narrow shelves the Monk, overcome by curiosity, paused to inspect one of the books, and gasped in wonder.

"The lost volumes of [Aggripa? Pliny? Any notable antique text will do]!" he exclaimed, waving the book at the others.

The Knight and the Squire exchanged glances, for both were indifferent to such matters.

"If they're lost, how are they here?" the Knight asked the Monk, who was busy piling books in to his bag.

"What if they're cursed?" asked the Squire, and the Monk withdrew his hand from the book he had been reaching for, and stared at the shelf for a while.

"Do you recall any mention of this tower before the arrival of the sorcerer?" he asked.

The Knight, who paid no heed to such matters, shrugged and looked to the Squire.

"The villagers made no mention of it. Though that could mean it is - or, was - a normal tower and they did not think it important, or that they knew not of its existence."

The Monk nodded, grimly.

"Then it could be that the whole tower is a conjuration. We can trust nothing to be as it seems, or even to be real at all," he said through pursed lips.

"Is there a way to check?" asked the Squire

"Not safely," the Monk answered sadly,

"If they truly are cursed, or worse a demonic conjuration, to even open them could be an act of mortal peril."

"What if you put it on the floor and I tip it open with my sword?" asked the Knight

"That would make no difference, I fear. No, safer by far to leave it. We cannot lose sight of our quest. Perhaps we can return when our work is done." So saying the Monk reluctantly returned the books, and the trio continued.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs up to the next floor, they found another door, this time barred and bolted, and with an elaborate seal painted upon it. The Knight, who was leading, paused.

"Brother? What do you make of this?"

The Monk squeezed past the Knight to the bottom of the stairs, and examined the seal.

"Hmm... It's no maleficium... Geomancy, if I remember my Etymologiae... Theurgic, too I think... Hmm..."

"Well? Can you do something about it?" asked the Knight

The Monk looked around the corridor.

"Nothing to work with here... I shall return shortly!" And hoiking up his habit above his ankles, the Monk headed off up down the stairs.

"Do you need any help?" the Squire called after the Monk.

"Should I go and help?" they asked the Knight, when there was no answer.

The Knight had been hoping to spend a moment or two alone with the Squire, but couldn't think of a good reason to keep them with him, and let them go to follow the Monk.

The Knight stood and waited, staring at the painted symbol on the door, musing on the strange nature of magic, and human relationships, and trying to decide which he found more aggravating.

After a few minutes the Monk returned with a bowl and a small spoon.

"This should serve to deactivate the sigil," he said, stepping up to the door. The Knight stepped back to give the Monk more room.

"What is that? Some... Magical concoction?" the Knight asked, as the Monk painted a thick green substance with a strong herbal smell through key elements of the seal.

"Hm? Oh, no, I couldn't find any paint, so I took this. I think it's soup."

"I see. What's the Squire still up to then?" asked the Knight.

"I sent them down to have a look in the store room while I checked the kitchen. I expect they'll be back soon." The Monk said, stepping back from the sigil, tipping their head to one side, then adding one more line.

"I think that should suffice," the Monk said, satisfied with his handiwork.

"Really? That's it?"

The Monk shrugged.

"Should have put it on the other side of the door," he replied.

"Alright. If the Squire isn't back in a minute or two, I'll go find them, then we can go through."

As the Knight said that, the Squire returned, lugging a sizeable barrel.

"I couldn't find any actual paint, but there's something in here that should work, I think. Not sure what it is, though." they said, a little out of breath. Then they saw the already-modified seal.

"Oh, did you already find something?" they asked with forced cheerfulness.

"Soup," the Monk replied, holding up the bowl in both explanation and apology.

"You could have told me," the Squire said a little reproachfully as they set down the barrel.

"Sorry," said the Monk.

The Knight resisted the temptation to intervene between them, but shot the Squire a conciliatory look.

"Alright. This is it. Let's - Brother, put down that bowl of soup - thank you. Right. Go!" and the Knight slammed through the door, shield raised and a prayer on his lips, ready to ward off whatever surprises they faced on the other side.

The young woman busily tying bedsheets together was probably less surprised than the trio of questors, as it happened, having heard them talking outside some time ago.

"Halt, conjurer!" the Knight shouted, levelling his sword at her as he advanced across the room, the Monk and Squire close behind. The woman froze and dropped the sheets, and the Squire scurried round the edge of the room to where the other end of the improvised rope lay by the window, and kicked it away.

"Stand guard by the window! The rope could be a ruse, she might try to fly away!" the Knight called out, and the Squire stayed in place with their sword drawn.

"Brother, can you prevent her casting any further spells?" the Knight asked.

The Monk peered round the Knight at the alarmed and slightly confused woman in the centre of the room.

"Uh... Probably?" He cleared his throat and started a prayer in Latin.

The young woman sprang in to action, clapping her hands, and calling out

"Asabove! Sobelow!" and two cats, one white and one black appeared, and leapt on to her shoulders, and began a recitation in Hebrew. The Knight and Squire braced themselves for a wave of magical energy, but felt nothing as the powers before them clashed. The Monk and Sorceress faced each other and continued their chanting. The Knight thought he felt a tingle of energy run through his armour. He exchanged a look with the Squire. The chanting had now risen to a fever pitch, the Monk holding up his crucifix and rosary, the Sorceress making elaborate hand gestures. Then the Squire threw a sheet over the young woman, and the Knight grabbed her before she could untangle herself.

"Watch out!" the Monk shouted, and the Knight suddenly found himself falling to the ground, though he kept his grip on the conjurer as he hit the floor. The cat he had tripped over yowled and bolted, hissing at him from the desk by the window. The other cat jumped up to join it, and avoid the bodies rolling across the floor, one wrapped in armour, the other in a sheet. After a while the Sorceress gave up the struggle and lay still. The Knight sat up, not letting go.

"Right. Let's have no more of that. Surrender to me, and you'll be under my protection when we return to the village"

The figure slumped, but nodded under the sheet.

"That's better!" The Knight let go, clapped her on the shoulder, and pulled the sheet off her.

The woman underneath, now somewhat dishevelled, made no attempt to escape and simply stared in alarm at the trio, and the Knight felt it had perhaps been wrong to handle her so roughly. A feeling that only deepened as he took proper notice of her for the first time, her ice-blue eyes wide in fear, and her raven-black hair falling in curls around a pale oval face down to her shoulders left bare by her green velvet dress.

He glanced at his companions, both of whom looked concerned, but it wasn't clear about what, so he paid it no heed, trusting them to speak up if it was important.

The Knight stood, and retrieved his arms from where he had dropped them before he grappled the Sorcereress.

He turned back to see the Squire helping her up, while the Monk covered her with his crucifix.

The Knight sheathed his sword and spoke.

"Now, you've caused a lot of trouble with this magic, young lady. What do you have to say for yourself?"

The young woman stared back and forth between them. "Um... Sorry?" her voice was familiar, but only the Squire recognised it as the voice of the owl from the previous night.

"You turned acres of farmland in to a marsh! Do you really think sorry is good enough?" The Monk spluttered.

"Uh... It was an accident?" she replied.

"How do you do that by accident?" asked the Squire.

"well... I was trying to conjure this tower... Which worked! Well, mostly. And the book said it was angels that would build it, so I thought that would be alright, I wouldn't do black magic! And they did such a good job with this dress, and the other clothes. Anyway, I think I got something wrong, because, well, the tower is all upside down, and well... " She trailed off and waved a hand in the direction of the swamp outside the window.

There was a moment of quiet while they processed this.

The Monk coughed

"Sorry, you mentioned a book? Could I see it?"

The Sorceress brightened slightly.

"Oh, yes, it's here, it's very interesting -" her face fell again as she turned round, holding the book she had just retrieved from the desk

"- I suppose you're going to take it away?"

"Ah. Yes, probably. Sorry." The young woman seemed so crestfallen that the Monk couldn't help but apologise. He gently took the book from her hands, and examined it.

"What do you make of it, Brother?" the Squire asked after a while.

"It's definitely unusual... And in need of further study. The young lady may be right about the angelic nature of this tome... Where on earth did you find this?"

The young woman coughed, embarrassed.

"I found it in a tree stump. Uh, Brother." She added a small curtsey for good measure.

"A tree..." The Monk shook his head, and turned to the Knight.

"I'll need to take this back to the monastery and consult the Scriptorum. This is quite the mystery."

"Then we had best get going. Squire, would you tie her hands together?"

"What? But I said I'm sorry!"

"yes, I know, but you need to apologise to the people of your village as well, and I'd look very silly if I let you get away on the way back."

"But you have a horse, I could never outrun you!"

"Well, you could summon a magical steed or something, I expect."

"or steal one of ours"

"yes, or that! So, yes. Very sorry, but it really is necessary."

Despite her protestations, the Sorceress had allowed the Squire to bind her hands, raising an eyebrow at the expertise they did it with. The Squire pretended not to notice. The Monk coughed. The Knight was vaguely aware he had missed something.

The Squire stepped away from the Sorceress, handing the other end of the rope to the Knight.

"good work. Anyone need anything before we go? No? Let's get going, then."

None of the questors were prepared to be the first to suggest loosing half a day of travel for the comforts present, but by unspoken consensus they agreed onlunch before departing. After some discussion with the Sorcereress, the Monk decided that the food in the kitchen should be safe to eat, even if it was conjured, and prepared a meal of pottage, served with crusty bread and honeyed purple carrots. They untied one of the Sorceress' hands that she might eat before they left. The Knight apologised for the indignity, and acknowledged that she was being very co-operative, but they had only just captured her and really couldn't take any risks.

After dining they departed, the Sorcereress sat sidesaddle in front of the Knight, her hands tied to his pommel, while the Squire now sat behind the Monk on the donkey.

Returning by the same route, it was not long until they came to the ford where the smoking armour was still tied to the trees.

"Oh, that's how you defeated it," said the Sorceress, upon seeing the still-moving armour.

"It was a formidable opponent," said the Knight.

"Are you able to dispel the enchantment?" asked the Monk.

The Sorceress was silent for a moment before speaking.

"Maybe? I don't recall anything in the book about how to do that, though I suppose there must be a way." she replied.

"You… you haven't read it all?" asked the Monk, concerned.

"Well... No. I took a while to teach myself to read it all. But the sigils made it quicker once I had worked out how to use those. I haven't got to the bit about undoing spells yet." The Sorceress replied, somewhat bashful.

"And yet you mastered conjuration, enchantment, and wards?"

"Well, I don't know about mastered. The tower was all weird, never mind the marsh, and you beat the armour. Oh, and the ward on the door was just something I copied ou as a distraction. If I'd wanted it to stop you I'd have put it on the inside of the door, but I hadn't got to that bit. But. Um. Thank you? "

"That's not... Well... You're welcome. But you don't know how to undo any of these enchantments?"

The sorceress shook her head.

"No, sorry. I'd be more than happy to help you work it out, though."

"Ah. Why would we..." The Monk caught the eye of the Knight and Squire, who were both gesturing for him to not say anything that might give her reason to try and escape.

"I mean. Thank you. I'm sure we can arrange something back at the village."

The rest of the return to the village passed without event, spending the night by the same tree, untroubled by mysterious groaning or talking owls. As they went, the young woman explained how she had found the book, and begun by practicing the summoning of small, trivial things, like clothes and kitchenware to find the limits of what she could do. As the villagers became suspicious, she realised she'd either have to stop, or do something dramatic. And, reasoning that they had occasional trouble with outlaws from the north, a tower for herself that also guarded the village should keep her safe from both parties, and give her the freedom to experiment further. The Monk and Squire were not convinced, but to their mutual concern the Knight appeared quite prepared to accept it all.

A path slowly rose out of the marsh as the pools receded into the mist, and the questors and their prisoner- who now rode unbound before the Knight, having promised very nicely that she wouldn't try and run away- saw the wooden palisade of the village rising up before them.

The Knight hailed the guard at the gate.

"Ho there! We return successful, with your sorceress captive."

The guard looked over at the Sorceress, who was now sat behind the Knight on his horse with her arms around his armoured waist.

"She doesn't look very captive," he said, suspiciously.

"Well, she's said sorry."

"Sorry? Sorry? She conjured up a tower and turned our best fields into a swamp and now she says she's sorry? I bet she doesn't even mean it!"

There was a whispered conversation.

"she says she does!"

There was another whispered conversation, this time on the other side of the wall.

"Alright then, you can come in. But she'd better be very sorry!"

The Knight looked back at the Sorceress behind him, who looked back with wide, hopeful eyes, and a slight smile.

He smiled back.

"She is!" he called out, and the Monk 'harrumphed', as they rode in to the village through the opening gates.

desperately craving weird surrealist arthurania. Knights with no faces wandering through the mists. Seams between Christian and pre-Christian Britain gaping like open wounds. Beafts and visions. Maybe a monk. Maybe the monk is gay

#Surrealist Arthuriana #creative writing #arthuriana #humor

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