Four men-at-arms challenged me at the gate to the Sveinsey fortress—the soon-to-be castle. The captain was in attendance, a middle-aged veteran with more salt than pepper in his beard. He saw me as a threat at first since my armor was better than his, but once I humbly begged leave to join the guard, follow his lead, and serve his lord, he relaxed somewhat.

“Why are you here?” he said.

“I came in on the last ship from the Frankish lands.”

“Fine, but why sail to Sveinsey, boy?”

I never get tired of being called “boy” by men who are hundreds of years younger than I am.

“I heard about the Fisher King across the channel. Kind and generous and yet invincible.”

“You heard about the Fisher King across the channel? Come with me. I think he would be very interested to hear the details.”

He led me through the gates and into the fortress, past halls hanging with tapestries and maids keeping the stone swept.

“It’s near time for the evening meal,” the captain said. “I’m sure they can find a place for you at the table. Always enough food to go around, of course.”

The great hall was a festival of tapestries and seven-branched candelabras. Long tables with simple benches were placed end-to-end on one side; the other side was curiously bare, and everyone sat facing the blank space, which I began to suspect would be the scene of some entertainment forthwith.

The middle table was furnished with high-backed chairs rather than benches, and there sat a pale man with heavy-lidded eyes dressed in luxurious furs. A huge golden cross dangled about his neck and a simple golden circlet rested on his head. He seemed uninterested in the food before him. To his left sat a couple of noblemen, and to his right sat a man who could be none other than the Pict. The entire right half of his face was covered in tattoos that undoubtedly served a magical function, just as mine did. Perhaps thirty silver bars pierced his face on the same side; he must have heard about silver’s magical properties as well, so I could expect him to be fairly juiced. Still, I wasn’t terribly worried. No one had attempted to take away my sword yet, and that gave me confidence—that, and my own silver store of magic.

The Pict wore greasy dark hair down to his shoulders and his beard had been shoved through silver circlets so that it fell like a dark stalactite down to his sternum. It was to him, not the presumed Fisher King, that I was led. Dagda’s cauldron sat plainly before him; serving women were loading up plates as high as they could manage and walking them down the tables to serve guests. Since it was far more food than any one person could eat, a small pack of dogs waited behind them for the bonanza of leavings that would no doubt ensue. And yes, Oberon: there were sausages.

“Counselor,” the captain said, addressing the Pict by what must be his title. “This knight has come from the Frankish kingdom, where he says he has heard of the Fisher King.” The Pict looked up at me but the Fisher King did not stir at the mention of his name.

“Has he now?” The Pict’s voice was mellifluous and light; I had rather expected something reminiscent of sulfur and bone shards. “And you are?” he asked me.

“Sir Gawain, at your service,” I replied.

“Excellent. You can serve me by joining us for dinner. I would like to hear how you heard of the Fisher King in the land of the Franks.” He turned to the nobleman to his right. “Lord Gwynedd, might you do me the great courtesy of making room for this knight?” A shuffle of chairs, an additional one produced for me, and I was seated within choking distance of the Pict who’d stolen Dagda’s cauldron. Though I couldn’t be absolutely certain that he was also the necromancer that had turned Wales into bloody bollocks, he certainly looked the part. The captain excused himself to return to his post.

A serving maid placed a heaping plate in front of me and said, “Counselor, dinner is served.”

“Ah. Thank you. ’Tis your cue, my liege.” The Fisher King roused himself from his stupor and said grace before everyone began to eat. Everyone said amen and then the Fisher King slumped back in his chair.

“Is the king not well?” I asked.

“His appetite is a bit off right now,” the Pict said. “You may call me Domech,” he added.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Tell me how you came to hear of the Fisher King,” he said. I spun him a story of how I had heard of a land wasted but a castle in the middle of it saved by God because the Fisher King was
so faithful.

“I wanted to serve such a man, and so I came here to offer my sword.”

“A man of faith, are you?”

“Tremendous faith, sir. Let me show you this cross given to me by a lady I saved from the Saxons.” I took the silver cross from my pouch and brandished it over my plate. “If you say a small prayer each evening it protects you from the very demons of hell.” I spoke the words that would bind my vision to the magical spectrum. It was Old Irish, of course, and bloody Domech recognized it.

“That sounded like the speech of Druids,” he said, frowning at me. “Are you a Druid, Sir Gawain?”

At this point I’m sure he expected a denial. I actually expected to issue one. Instead my left arm whipped up and I smashed him in the face with my studded leather bracer. The back of his head hit the chair, stunning him, and I pushed mine back to give myself room and stood. The assembled diners gasped in shock and some angry exclamations wafted my way. I gave Domech another punch in the mouth to prevent him from speaking a spell and then checked out the Fisher King in my magical sight.

He wasn’t alive. That explained the loss of appetite. He had plenty of dark spells wrapped around him, however, some of them clearly bound with Domech, and other wisps of smoky malevolence that seemed to radiate in every direction until they disappeared at the walls. Domech was definitely a necromancer.

“Right,” I said, pulling out Fragarach. There wasn’t time to analyze the situation with a room full of armed nobles and guards who would shortly be after my head. I made sure the Fisher King lost his first, since he wasn’t using it anyway. It was telling that he hadn’t moved, even though his most trusted counselor had been whacked in the face—twice—in close proximity. I swung Fragarach through his neck and it tumbled onto the table; there was no blood. The shadowy spells around him dissipated.

Domech jerked as if I’d hit him again and the screaming began. I checked my rear to see if anyone approached from that quarter and found the nobles cowering in a satisfactory manner. The lesser folk and the maids tore at their hair in terror as they fled the hall. There were guards running my way, however, and I was quite clearly the bad guy from their point of view.

“No!” Domech cried, his eyes fixed on the head of the Fisher King. “He was chained to the land!”

No wonder the land had died out so quickly; Domech had bound it to a dead man. With the Fisher King gone, the land would be able to recover on its own—so long as the Pict didn’t do it again.

Domech had more than earned the death sentence according to Druidic law; he’d been draining the life out of an elemental while cloaking his activities beneath a fog. There wasn’t a Druid alive who wouldn’t slay him for what he’d done, and I felt honored to get to him first. Unfortunately, he ducked under the swing of my sword and trapped my arm across my body before I could take a backswing. Magic swirled amongst the silver bars in his face and blood dripped from his ruined nose. His right hand grabbed me between the legs and then he lifted me bodily over his head, throwing me over the table into the clear space of the hall.