Knights of the Non-Euclidean Table – Sample

The following is an excerpt from the forthcoming LOVECRAFT IN A TIME OF MADNESS anthology, set for release in March of 2021.

KNIGHTS OF THE NON-EUCLIDEAN TABLE

BY MITCHELL LUTHI

THE ROT OF CAMLANN

“That’s the last of them,” said Theodoric, wiping the edge of his axe against his breeches. The stocky Saxon prodded the nearest body with the tip of his boot and looked up at Gawain. “Next time, leave some for me, eh?”

“Next time, be quicker.” Gawain moved through the room, listening to the stiff floorboards creak beneath the weight of his armour. There was a muffled thump from one of the rooms above, followed by the distinctive crack of Sir Garin’s laughter, and Raaf’s whiny chattering.

“At least the lads are having fun,” said Theodoric, grinning. “Nothing like butchering a nest full of devil worshippers to lighten the soul.”

Gawain nodded, kneeling beside one of the woodsmen splayed out across the floor. He dragged his sword across the man’s homespun tunic, cleaning the lifeblood from his weapon, before sheathing it and getting back to his feet. He knew better than to linger for too long.

“Come on,” he said, walking out of the room. They’d have to torch the place.

Raaf had spotted the cabin nestled between the trees of Hatfield Forest just as dusk was starting to settle. It’d taken another quarter mile before Gawain could see it. Damnit, but the boy’s eyes were good.

Sir Garin and Theodoric had ridden on ahead to scout the place out, but he’d known the truth of it before they’d returned. A thin wisp of smoke had curled up into the reddening sky, confirming it wasn’t abandoned. And the rest had been obvious. No god-fearing Christians remained in this part of Britain, only their graves.

There had been five of them, and however many more Garin and Raaf had dispensed with upstairs. Black-gummed and red-eyed, they’d met Sir Gawain and his men with curses on their lips, only to be cut down like the dogs they were. He’d have left their bodies in the dust and mud and shit if it wasn’t for the rot.

“How many?” asked Gawain as Raaf, and the hedge knight emerged from the bottom of the stairs.

“Three,” said Garin, stepping into the small lobby. He was taller than Gawain and heavier. The floorboards squealed beneath his weight, and his sabatons cut into the wooden panels. “Raaf put an arrow through the first and let me do the rest.”

Gawain grunted, meeting the hedge knight’s eyes. Garin wore his hair long, tied behind his head in a knot. His armour was well-worn but well-kept, and he wielded his two-hander more nimbly than most did their side-swords. The Listenoisean had answered Bedivere’s call to muster after Camlann… where everything had changed.

“We still have a little light,” said Gawain, pushing back the memory. “Another hour before nightfall, at the least.”

“And then the comet will guide our way,” said Theodoric, lumbering up beside him. The Teuton crossed himself, a toothy grin appearing from within his black beard. “The Devil’s Eye.”

“Aye,” said Gawain. “So it is.”

The small company left the cabin behind them, moving deeper into Hatfield Forest as white tufts of smoke began to bloom from the dwelling. Fire was the only way to deal with the rot, the only means by which to purify the soil of Mordred’s spawn. Arthur had discovered that, after cleaving through the ichor-covered skin of a great, tentacled serpent that had set upon him when they had returned from France. The ground around the beast had started to warp and twist until not even holy water could cleanse it. The King had thrown a torch upon the carcass, his brow furrowed and dark as the beast screeched and writhed and twisted beneath the flames. That had been but the beginning.

Bedivere and his host would see the smoke from the King’s Road and hasten towards it, of that Gawain had no doubt. He wished nothing more than to wait for them, to find some solace and solidarity in their numbers. But he had a charge to fulfil, and honour demanded he complete the task at hand.

He clicked beneath his breath, guiding Gringolet with his knees as the sturdy charger picked its way deeper into the woods. He rode behind Theodoric and Garin, with his squire, Raaf, taking up the rear.

The forest was silent, with no sound of bird nor beast—not even the wind. Tall trees grew around the narrow path they rode, their roots digging deep into the earth. The woods were old—older than Camelot, than Lady Britain herself.

Tangled rose vines grew across their boughs, forming tapestries of colour, set on looms of wood and green ivy. Shards of light pierced the dense canopy, giving life to the dense shrubbery that surrounded them. Gawain saw plants that he’d never seen before: flowers that blossomed like scabby wounds, orchids that recoiled away from the pale light.

There was a smell, too, a sort of musk that grew more pungent the further they went. It reminded him of turned meat, and he lowered his visor to try and limit the stench.

They crossed a babbling brook as the last rays of the day began to fade, turning at first a shade of orange, and then red. Gawain could see little slivers of sky above, between the leaves and branches. Thick clouds sprawled across the heavens, their dark bellies heavy with rain. To the north, he could just make out the tail of the comet. Arall Myrddin, Merlyn had called it the night it had appeared. They had been in France, hunting down Sir Lancelot and his allies when the fiery comet had first split the night sky.

Not so long ago, Gawain thought as he ushered Gringolet up the opposite banks of the stream. It felt like a lifetime had passed since they’d returned home, only to find Mordred upon the throne of Logres. The little rat bastard. His own brother, by blood, if not in spirit. Gawain had vowed then and there that he would be the one to kill him, but the chance had never come, not even at Camlann, where Arthur and that godless thing that had once been Mordred battled for the kingdom.

They rode on a little while further before the trees began to thin out, stripped away like old King Pellinore’s hair, and came to a stop before a shaded glen that opened up upon a wide valley.

“This looks like the place,” said Sir Garin over his shoulder. The hedge knight twisted in his saddle, nodding to Theodoric and the other knight. “This is what Sir Bedivere wanted. A place to meet the traitor. A burial ground.”

Gawain lifted his visor, breathing in the air. It was fresh, with the taste of rain and grass. A pair of rolling hills crowded in the valley, the hunched backs of giants resting beneath the earth. To the east, the black trees of the forest disappeared into the hills, while a thundering river coursed along its western boundaries. The field was flat and long, perfect for the bristling charge of knights in armour.

“Aye,” he agreed. “This is the place.”

Theodoric rode up beside him, coming to a stop on the edge of the woods before breathing out deeply. “A bloody fine field,” he said with a blink of his hooded brown eyes. He rapped his hairy knuckles against the shield hanging from his horse’s flank and nodded solemnly. “Couldn’t have picked one better if the Lady herself had appeared to show us the way.”

Gawain gave the Saxon a thin smile and then turned to Raaf. “It’s time you earned your keep, son. Go and fetch Sir Bedivere and his men. Lead them back the way we came, and don’t tarry about. He’ll want to see this place before the last light.”

“Hold on, lad.” Theodoric pulled at his reins, turning his horse as the squire made to head off. “I think I’ve spotted our supper.”

Gawain followed his gaze, staring into the thicket on the other side of the churning river. A silver stag had emerged from the forest and was cautiously making its way to the water’s edge. A thick mane of velvet hung around its neck—the remnants of its winter fur—and its white-tufted tail swept from side to side as it made its approach.

“Look at the horns on that one,” said Theodoric, gesturing at the boy to unshoulder his bow.

Raaf looked uncertain for a moment, caught between the instructions of his master and Theodoric’s motioning, but at a nod from Gawain, he shrugged off the bow and drew an arrow from the quiver at his side.

“That’s a fourteen-pointer, that is,” said the Saxon, nudging his own horse forward.

“Careful,” said Garin. “You don’t want to spook it.”

“Careful yourself.” Theodoric grinned. “I’m not about to have porridge for supper and breakfast again, knight. I’ll run it down if needs be.”

Gawain leaned forward in his saddle, watching Raaf as he edged closer to the stag. The boy was good with a bow and could knock a moorhen out of the sky at two hundred yards, but the buck was still too far away. It’d have to be a clean kill. They couldn’t waste time scouring the forest for a wounded stag—not after nightfall.

When Raaf was closer, just on the edge of the treeline, he notched an arrow to the string and drew it taught against his chin. His form was perfect, and Gawain knew the arrow would fly true.

A gentle wind blew through the trees, rustling the grass and sending woody seeds and spores swirling towards the field. Gringolet shifted beneath him, stomping its hooves against the ground, and Gawain felt a sense of unease settle upon his shoulders.

Now, boy, he thought, before it smells our scent.

The stag looked up from the stream, turning its head towards the forest. Its velvet pelt was matted and dirty. Scars and blisters covered the creature’s neck, festering wounds that seemed to pulse, even as the creature stared at them. A dark substance, too black to be blood, was splattered across the stag’s fur. It had been attacked, and recently, by the looks of it.

The knight rested a hand on the pommel of his sword, his eyes flicking to the shadowed thickets that surrounded the river. Perhaps a lion hunted these woods, or something worse? Had they stumbled upon a victim of Palamedes’s Questing Beast? There was something wrong about the way the animal stood, its shoulders hunched, its muscles bunched up like a predator, ready to spring upon its prey.

Gawain blinked, the breath leaving his body as an icy cold hand clutched at his heart and crawled along his skin.

The stag had three eyes.

IDYLLS OF THE KNIGHT

“Merlyn was right. This land is cursed.” Theodoric spat into the fire, before taking another swig from his flask and passing it on to Garin. “Not even the beasts have been spared, and that was to be my dinner.” 

Gawain nodded solemnly. After Raaf had put an arrow in the wretched stag’s heart, they’d doused the corpse in sesame oil and burned it. Bedivere and his host had arrived not long after, drawn to the flickering flames like bloodhounds. They’d set up camp along the river, beneath the trees before the clearing. Over ten thousand men, the heart and spirit of what remained of Arthur’s armies, now rested within the shadow of Hatfield Forest.

Gawain waved away Garin’s proffered flask, leaning back against his riding saddle and the rolled-up blanket he was using as a cushion. “The roots of darkness are deep here. It’s true. But the land shall be cleansed and born anew.”

“The words of a priest.” Garin laughed, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “Between you and Father Tawly, I don’t know who is more serious.”

“It’s the Father, for sure.” Theodoric snorted, scratching at his beard. “I haven’t seen the man laugh nor smile. And they say us Saxons are without humour.”

Gawain stifled a smile at the thought of Father Tawly and his sermons. The man could spit fire and brimstone when his ire was raised, and even the hardiest of knights baulked at his admonishments.

“Where is that old fart?” Garin sat up on his haunches, gazing around the camp for a sign of the white-robed preacher. The hedge knight was dressed in just his padded gambeson and breeches. The quilted doublet he wore was stained with sweat and grime, and Gawain felt a moment’s sympathy for the knight errant. Since Camlann, the lives of all had changed, but questing knights had felt it more than most. There was no keep to return to, no round table to aspire to. Gone were the heroic adventures, the swooning damsels, and golden trinkets. The spark was gone, and now there was only survival—mere survival.

“He’ll be around,” said Gawain, tracking Garin’s eyes as he looked about the camp. “Likely filling his censers for the morrow.”

A dull glow hung over the rows of tents, casting shadows that stretched as tall as the trees they rested beneath. The light of Arall Myrddin was growing stronger, a red hue that seemed to pervade all corners of the night, like the sun itself. The comet was barely visible during the day, but when darkness fell, it was like a scar upon the heavens. It hardly moved when you watched it, but each night, it was just a little bit closer, just a little bit bigger.

Gawain spared it a moment’s scrutiny, and then glanced about the camp. There were no grand pavilions and lofty gazebos beneath the trees, not even for Sir Bedivere and the remaining Knights of the Round Table. Like the days of questing, that, too, had passed. Now each man slept in what he could carry, or strap to the back of his horse.

Footmen and knights shared fires in front of their tents, more equal now than any knight of the table had ever been. They engaged in muted conversation or exchanged mead and watered-down wine. There was some laughter, but it was nervous and forced, hardly the hearty roar of men celebrating the night before a battle.

“I see Bedivere is fulfilling his duties.” Garin nodded his chin towards a line of red and yellow tents on the edge of the treeline. Arthur’s French allies had answered his call when news of Mordred’s treachery had crossed the channel. Knights from Fécamp and Bodoual had taken up arms in his name. Men as far east as Auvergne had come, knowing him to be valorous and true, and his cause worthy.

Sir Bedivere walked among their tents, offering words of reassurance and exchanging jokes in the smattering of French he’d picked up at Court. He wore a light tunic of red and gold—the colours of Camelot—and walked beside a towering figure Gawain recognised as Sir Kay.

“He’s no Arthur,” said Garin, watching Bedivere as he knelt beside a gruff-looking chevalier. The two men exchanged a few words before Bedivere clasped him on the shoulder awkwardly and got back to his feet.

Gawain was hesitant to agree, but Garin was right. Bedivere, for all his strengths, was not like Arthur. He was stiff around men he didn’t know and lacked the charm and openness of a true leader. Lancelot should have been here, leading them, they all knew it. But fate had decided otherwise. Or rather, Lancelot’s betrayal had.

Gawain had written to him, even offered him forgiveness if he would just return to Arthur’s side to destroy the usurper, and cleanse the land of the poison that had taken root. Lancelot’s crimes were but those of a child’s compared to Mordred’s blasphemies. But there had been no reply, and now it was too late.

Sir Bedivere had done the best he could. There was no denying it. Better than any man still standing could have done. He’d taken Arthur’s words to heart and scraped together what was left of Britain’s armies after the battle of Camlann. They stood united now, ready and willing to give battle, to avenge the fallen—to avenge the King.

“He is a good man,” said Theodoric, “but he bears a heavy burden. Too heavy, I think.”

“We shall see.” Gawain turned away from the camp and stared over the fire at the bulky Teuton. “What of you, Theodoric? Will you return home when this is done? There is a place here for you, I think, once we have undone Mordred’s grip on the land.”

The Saxon let out a heavy sigh and stared up at the night sky. He was quiet for a moment, his eyes fixed on the comet before he blinked and turned back to Gawain. “I have been away for too long already. I will need to return to Domburg when… if we defeat Mordred. It seems we Saxons have our own monsters to deal with.”

Gawain raised a brow. “What have you heard?”

“Little from across the Elbe, but there are stories…” Theodoric shrugged. “Since the comet, the forests have become treacherous. More than that, there is talk of creatures lurking in the old towns, feasting upon anyone foolish enough to wander out at night. My lord had gathered a host to investigate further, but I have not heard from him since.”

“Bandits and cutthroats,” said Garin. “There is no reason to think Mordred’s corruption has spread.”

“Aye,” Gawain grunted. “This devil’s pact is one brought to bear by the traitor. It will not have crossed the shores to affect your countrymen.”

Theodoric nodded but looked unconvinced. “All the same, I must return to Hamburg once we cut the rot from Logres.”

Garin took another swig from the flask and stared deeply into the fire. “I would like to see this Domburg for myself,” he said after a while, “and compare it to our own keeps. Perhaps I will join you, if you’ll have me?”

Theodoric grinned, slapping the hedge knight on the shoulder with a meaty palm. “Aye, I’d be grateful to have your sword and company. Maybe you’ll get a taste for real ale while we’re there, too. Not this piss-poor Logrean stuff.”

“You don’t like our drink?” Bedivere appeared beside the fire, Sir Kay, like a shadow, beside him.

Theodoric chuckled, nodding up at the knights. “It’s not so bad as the swill they drink in France, but it’s no Saxon brew.”

“I shall pass on your complaints,” said Bedivere with a thin smile. He looked tired, Gawain thought. His face was scarred from where a mace had caught him on the continent, and his hair flecked with grey. Still, there was a resilience about him—a dogged spark behind his pale eyes.

“Maybe you Saxons would fight better if your drink wasn’t so strong,” said Sir Garin with a chortle. He moved out of reach of Theodoric, just as the chuckling Teuton swiped at him with his hand. “A joke, a joke!”

“Speak for yourself, lad. You wave that zweihänder of yours around like a drunk. It’s a miracle you haven’t knocked all our heads off.”

Gawain rolled out of the way of the tumbling forms, getting to his knees as Theodoric tried to pin the younger knight. A smile spread across his face as he watched them jostle with each other, his laughter joining theirs.

“It is good to hear you laugh again.”

Gawain turned to meet Bedivere’s eyes and nodded, feeling his smile fade. They hadn’t spoken much in recent weeks. None of the knights that had sat with Arthur had. The memory was still too fresh.

“You picked well,” said Bedivere, nodding out towards the valley. “A worthy place to decide Britain’s fate. What do they call it?”

“I do not know that it has a name.” Gawain stared across the tents, at the field. Grass grew in clumps nearest the river, but it gradually began to thin until it was no higher than his ankles. The light of Arall Myrddin glowed like a beacon above it, giving the field a rubicund tinge, the grass blushing like embers at the bottom of a hearth.

“It’ll need a name if the bards are to sing of it in the years to come.” Bedivere shrugged. “But… perhaps that is better left to someone more poetic than I.”

Songs and poetry, thought Gawain. As if mere words could ever capture what they had all seen—what they had fought. His thoughts turned to Mordred, his cousin no more. “You think he will come?”

“He will come.” Bedivere stroked the pommel of the sword at his side with the palm of his remaining hand. He’d lost the other in battle many years ago but had been no lesser for it. Some had said he would have been the equal to Gawain with the use of both hands, maybe even Lancelot himself. “And then I will put him down like the lecherous cur he is.”

Gawain nodded, looking down at the sword. Excalibur. It rested awkwardly at Bedivere’s side, a little too long for the knight, unwieldy. But Bedivere wore it all the same. There had been those who had questioned by what right he now wielded the Sword of Kings. Those questions had been silenced with a wave of Merlyn’s wrinkled hand, and a word barked out in anger. Then the old man had left, striding out of the keep bare minutes after Arthur had been buried. Gawain had never seen such a look of pure despair on any man’s face before that moment.

“What of Merlyn?” he asked, voicing his thoughts. “Will he join us on the field?”

Bedivere pursed his lips, the scars around his mouth twisting with the movement. “I have not seen or heard of him since he left Tintagel Castle. And I do not expect to hear from him again. For a man of prophecy, Arthur’s death left him… shaken… unhinged. I think he might have gone mad from it.”

“He was changed, even before Camlann.” Sir Kay’s voice was deep and resonant, commanding attention. The knight shook his head, breathing out as he stared up into the night. “It started when the Devil’s Eye appeared. It took him unawares. I do not think he foresaw it, or what followed.”

“He failed Arthur,” said Bedivere. “As did we all.”

“Aye,” said Gawain. He felt it more than most. He had been there when Mordred struck. He had seen the lifeblood seep from Arthur’s breast, and known then that all the goodness in the world was no more.

“Come on,” said Theodoric from beside the fire. He’d given up tussling with Sir Garin and was nestled down beneath a blanket with his flask. “Enough talk of prophecy and death, there will be plenty of that tomorrow. Where’s the boy? Raaf! Give us a song, before your voice breaks and you sound like the rest of us ugly bastards.”

Gawain’s squire appeared from within one of the tents, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He shook the curls from his face and squinted at the men sat about the fire, before glancing at Gawain.

The knight shrugged. If the boy wanted to sing, that was his business, and he wouldn’t stop him.

“Give us a song, lad!” Theodoric clapped his hands together and grinned.

“What shall we have?” asked Garin, warming to the idea. “Do you know Can vei la Lauzeta? What about Redit Aetas Aurea?”

Raaf shook his head, looking out of his depth. “I am no troubadour, sir. I know The Lady and the Fox, and a few tavern ditties, but not much else.”

Theodoric pushed Garin by the shoulder, wagging his finger. “If you want to listen to French songs, go sit with the French, eh? Don’t bother the lad with them.”

“They are good songs,” Garin said, rolling his eyes. “Songs worth singing.”

“There are no more songs worth singing.” Gawain sat back down beside the fire, gesturing to Sir Bedivere and Sir Kay to join them. The two knights looked hesitant for a moment but eventually sat down stiffly, before accepting Garin’s flask.

“Aye,” Theodoric grunted, his smile fading. “Still, I’d like to hear the boy sing. Something to raise the spirits, eh?”

Gawain sighed. The words had come out darker than he intended. The eve of battle was no place for his morose comments, no matter the truth of them. He scratched at his chin, thinking, and then nodded to his squire. “How about the Idylls of the Knight?” 

“I know that one,” said Raaf, smiling faintly. “Though I cannot do it justice.” 

“Try,” said Sir Bedivere. He’d crossed his legs and was leaning forward against them. The light of the fire flickered across his scarred face, adding to the glow in his eyes.

The squire nodded again and pushed Theodoric’s legs out of the way so that he could stand amongst them. He stared at the faces around him one last time, and then took a deep breath before beginning.

His words were soft and clear, to start, but grew louder as the boy found his voice. Gawain caught himself smiling as he listened to the old song. He had heard it often at the King’s court, the tune a particular favourite of Arthur’s.

There was a knight most chivalrous, the fairest in all the land

He wore his lady’s favours, wrapped around his hand

Oh, King! He was a beauty, a hero to be sure

But he fought the Devil’s hubris, and his heart remained pure

When there came a call to battle, he rode from far and wide

Atop his mighty stallion, his sword at his side

He fought with might and fury, a feast for the eyes

And broke the Devil’s grip, he cleared those blackened skies 

Then he rode back home and kissed his lady 

He was the knight most chivalrous, the fairest in all the land 

Gawain remained sitting by the fire after the song was sung, after everyone else had gone to their tents. He watched the embers fade, not bothering to get up to add more wood. The night air was cold, and he could feel a little of the remnants of winter’s edge against his skin. But he didn’t mind.

He stayed like that for a while, remembering old songs sung in old halls, with old friends.