...Just a bit more, which should really have been tacked onto chapter 35. I had to make dinner, though.
36: Summons
Midworld, in Samara's rock-hewn, lamp-lit stables-
Somewhat hurriedly, Gawain took his leave of the witch, her menagerie and wild younger offspring. The doing was secret for the knight did not wish to risk anyone else's involvement in what might be his swift, brutal finish. Bad enough that his squire must come, with the centaur. The rest, he intended to spare.
With Britte's assistance Gawain saddled Blanchard; a simpler business when the beast had nothing to bear but an unarmoured, lightly armed man (mace and hunting bow, no more). For her own part, Britte took up a staff and her usual pouch of smooth rocks. Chester received a stout club, which he joyfully proceeded to bash against every available surface, earning an ill-tempered nip from Blanchard. Gawain would have added his own reprimand, but Chester was dear to Anelle, and he couldn't bring himself to be very stern.
"Stop," he commanded, taking hold of the club's wooden haft. Then, nodding at the snorting white destrier, "Take care. He'll have half y'r tail off, next time."
Chester's head drooped and his ears twitched sideways. They did not swivel so well as a horse's, but did move in response to his moods, somewhat. By way of apology, the colt released his grip on the steel-headed weapon to wrap both arms around Gawain. At once nuzzling and ogre-hugging the trapped knight, he said,
"Not angry… no more with me, Da."
Just about broke his ribs in so doing, which made Chester's speech doubly hard to follow.
"Will not… play stick no more."
"Right," Gawain grunted, finally pulling away, "Not till th' proper moment, at any rate… an' not upon innocent walls."
"Shall we be fighting a terrible enemy, Sir?" Britte put in, retuning from the tack room with a Chester-sized blanket and saddle pad. She had straw in her hair and hopeful gleam in her eager brown eyes.
"Not if all goes well… which has not been th' case f'r longer than I care t' recall. Still, you'll likely have little t' do but look on, an' that from a very safe distance."
Slapping Blanchard's side as he tightened the girth strap (because the stallion had learnt a mischievous trick of inhaling deeply while the saddle was fastened, then letting his breath out all in a rush when Gawain put a foot in the stirrup) the knight added,
"Can't really give you much more direction, as I've no clear notion what to expect, m'self. Only watch and remember, Britte, and if matters end poorly, seek you another knight my order… my father if possible… and tell what became of his son."
The day was well advanced by the time they rode through Samara's spell-warded doors; exchanging comfort and warmth for knife-edged, unnatural cold. The afternoon sky looked like snow and smelt of it, too; its pale blue surface hidden by fast-scudding, dirty grey clouds. Blizzard conditions, if he read the wind sprites correctly.
They could not allow weather to hinder them, though. Avoiding the notice of Britte's fellow ex-slaves, Gawain rode forth with his squire and centaur. Their trip was at first uneventful, though her mount's coltish gamboling caused Britte a very sore rump and much embarrassment.
At Gawain's behest, they followed the watery, half-glimpsed sun; cutting through bare woods and ice-rimmed streams, making for a tall granite ridge. Progress was steady, but slow, and the wind a constant, numbing assailant.
Presently, to break the monotony of thudding hooves and hissing snow flurries, Britte said,
"Sir… Have you traveled much?"
"Somewhat," he allowed, not looking around.
Gathering courage from the conversation's fair start, Britte asked,
"Then, if it be not too troublesome, Sir… may we hear tell of the farthest you've ventured?"
This time, he did glance aside, thinking for an instant that she referred to his sojourn in Faerie. But no… the squire's round face held nothing but warmth and a kind of shy adoration. No scorn nor accusation, at all. Relaxing a bit, he said,
"Well, then… th' lot of us… Kent, Ravencall, Argonne, Father and m'self… once were summoned t' battle at th' side of a chieftain of Tamar, and that is a far southern land; very hot and covered in crystal-white sands. You'd not think," he remarked, turning slightly toward her, "that bein' so heated, th' folk there would don many clothes, but they wrap themselves up until only their eyes show. They've very dark eyes an' fearsome tattoos all over; e'en th' ladies, my oath on it. Live all in tents, they do, and swear by strange gods. Their music was odd t' my notion, but th' food… that, I'd certainly wish m'self back for."
Britte's freckle-dusted face was utterly rapt. Leaning forward past Chester's upright and muscular torso, she asked,
"What was the very most wonderful dish, Sir? Some gold-leafed cake or rare spice?"
But the red-haired knight shook his head, smiling at far-distant memory.
"Nay, lass. Th' best of all was a sort of fruit, unlike any we have in th' north. It is smallish and ruddy, with not a peel but a thick, bitter rind. The inside is divided in segments which, bitten without proper care, will drip all over one's chin. But in flavour… it has something of th' sun's warmth and th' priest's chants all wrapped in it. At once pleasing an' strange."
Then, returning halfway from reverie, Gawain added,
"Our business complete and his foemen sent scurryin', th' chieftain offered t' trade sons with my father, that we might dwell in each other's country awhile an' strengthen our bond… but father refused, as he could not very well break up th' order. Still…"
The knight shrugged, rattling no chain mail nor sword belt, as he wasn't wearing such.
"…I do sometimes bethink m'self, what it would have been like."
"Perhaps we'll go there together, Sir," Britte suggested, drifting into imagined adventure, her hands deeply twined in Chester's wild mane.
"Perhaps so," the knight answered, "If ever we're called in that direction. One goes where summoned, lass."
…and does as ordered, he didn't quite finish aloud. How could he?
Just before sunset, they reached the scree-covered base of that towering ridge; grey as the clouds and nearly as cold. With night coming on and the forest stirring, Sir Gawain set what wards he could, while Britte and Chester made camp. On the morrow, they'd start for the top.