In which a Archibald of Swanlake recounts the events of his youth as well as what he knows about the Damp Causeway and the castle of Mournful Guard.
It was almost ten years since Sir Archibald of Swanlake took his questing vows and began his errant journey.
Being the third son of Lord Swanlake, a member of an ancient, but somewhat declined noble house, he received the best training and education his father could offer. Not wanting to indulge in traditional competition with his brothers over already fractured estates, Archibald decided to prove his worth and gain fame and fortune by going on the errant path.
On the night of the spring equinox, in his ancestral chapel, taking his parents, the Bishop of Redwall, the imperial Sheriff, and his childhood tutor, good Abbot Baldwin, as witnesses, he undertook the holy questing rites. He buried the shield with his family coat of arms under the altar, shedding his identity as the heir to the lands of Swanlake, and took up the white mantle of the Knight Errant. Vowing to protect the just and vanquish the wicked, armed with fierce dedication, he ventured into the world.
As with any career, it was not easy in the beginning. Worthy adventures just do not wait on every corner for a rookie knight errant. Many mistook his oath for free help, calling upon his oaken wreath for not-so-worthy challenges. A hole in the roof thatch, a broken wheel on the ford crossing, an unwanted suitor, an unpaid debt, or cattle lost in the woods. He learned the hard way about the pettiness of people, and not once was he fooled or deceived. Many times, he was treated as a mere mercenary, or even a murderer for hire, learning to decline unworthy requests to maintain his knightly honour.
Concluding that perhaps the fame must come before fortune, Archibald turned to jousting. With his skill and dedication, after scoring several victories, the word spread of the White Knight of Swanlake and the adventures rushed his way. A basilisk terrorising a town, an outlawed baron, rogue mercenaries, a roving band of centaurs. Wherever evil took hold, Archibald of Swanlake was called to make things right. His fame grew and his fortune came, as his deeds were rewarded with the favours of lords, the measurable gratitude of the common folk, and occasional spoils from vanquished foes. Part of the treasures and gifts he sent home helping to restore the Swanlake estates, while his fame greatly improved the standing of his house.
Having achieved so much, many knights errant would have fulfilled their vows tenfold, settled down, taken the land, a wife, and sired children. Bringing glory and pride to their houses, now attending to more regular knightly business. For years Archibald longed to follow in their steps, but there was one obstacle.
Ten years ago, driven in equal measure by ambition, the teachings of good Abbot Baldwin, and a chivalric dream that seemed romantic at the time, he vowed to remain chaste in his errant quest until he would marry a fair maiden, saved from distress by his own hand, in the same chapel where he had buried his coat of arms. Only under these conditions could he complete his quest and regain his lineage. Breaking these public holy vows would disgrace him, and even worse, disgrace his house.
What a fool he was! Couldn’t he have sworn the errantry path for one year and one day, as was custom? He had to be the most chivalrous of chivalrous! But who would have known back then that finding a decent maiden in peril would be a challenge greater than dragon slaying?
The first thing he learned was that damsels in distress were a much rarer breed than knightly romances would suggest. He travelled long, far, and wide without hearing of even one. When he finally stumbled upon the first qualifying damsel, he learned his second lesson – there is always something more to it.
His first rescued lady, saved when he was still a relatively unknown knight, rejected his marriage proposal due to him not being rich enough and decided to remain in her prison waiting for a better suitor. The second had waited for deliverance far too long to be the mother of his eventual children, or a mother in general. The third agreed to marry him under the condition that Archibald would cover her insane gambling debts that put her in peril in the first place (as well as ruined her family). Considering her not pleasant enough to warrant the expense, he left her where he saved her.
Then came a fashion among some of the goblin lords to keep elven girls in cages for the amusement of their guests. Their kin, hoping to liberate them without effort on their part, often spread rumours of imprisoned princesses wherever a knight errant passed. Many knights rushed to save abused girls, only for the girls to vanish like the morning dew. Twice Archibald encountered such a ruse. He released the elf maidens without even asking anything of them. As elf maidens were barren for humans, they were no wife material anyway. This taught him the third major lesson – always double-check the origin of rumours.
There were also other related problems.
On several occasions, the lords he met on a quest or in a joust offered him the hand of their daughters in marriage, only to learn about the conditions of his vow and change their minds, looking for more grounded, reasonable candidates. One lord, somewhat more determined, even tried to stage the kidnapping of his own daughter. He also changed his plans when the attempted rescue ended with the cracked skulls of said daughter’s cousins, disguised as kidnappers. Soon his oath became a widely known secret, raising in equal measure the awe of the romantic, the respect of the pious, and the amused pity of the pragmatic.
Another problem was the daily challenge to his personal virtue. Cold showers and fasting were sometimes not enough to ward off Succubi invading his dreams. Not convinced to self-flagellation, as recommended by Abbot Baldwin in such cases, Archibald sometimes wondered if the teachings of knightly chastity should only apply to the purity of intentions and not necessarily other aspects of life? Yet good Abbot always said, “Do not look for hidden meanings. The plain words are enough for the righteous, and allegories and metaphors are tools of the wicked to indulge in their vices!”. And so, Archibald regretfully abstained from most joys of life. He grew bitter seeing his childhood friends settle, their lineage assured. Even his own servants enjoyed life more than he did, either in the embrace of their wives, goblin sisters, or a tankard of ale. Yet these simple things were not allowed to him. Why did the Maker challenge him so? Was he to forever remain the Old Knight Errant? Like Lord Quickgoat, a tragic and comical figure of folk tales? Should he seek a glorious death to end his predicament? Maybe he should forfeit his name and join the convent or just ditch his knightly honour and live as a disgraced mercenary, avoiding his ancestral lands not to cast a shadow of shame on the house of his fathers? Had it amused the almighty to mock him? More and more, such dark thoughts plagued his mind, and resentment clouded his days lately, turning his holy mission into an unwanted tiresome burden. With such thoughts the youthful idealistic enthusiasm for his quest turned into a grim and bitter determination not to back down on his oaths, prove his own noble word unbreakable.
“Begone, demons,” whispered the knight to himself.
For this time, fortune seemed to smile upon him. All the signs, rumours, and tales gathered in inns and on the trail seemed credible enough. All indicated that there indeed was a maiden in peril. Not bad-looking. Kept against her will. By an evil lord rather than by a dragon or a troll, so it was likely she would not be eaten until saved. He was still relatively young and handsome, fairly rich by now, and considerably famous, so he counted his chances high. What could go wrong?
***
By noon, the caravan had reached the lake and followed the old trail between the shore and the swampy highland woods – the now infamous Damp Causeway. From what Archibald gathered, the causeway, built in old times by trolls from the Bogpine Mountains, was for many years the shortest way between the Greatfield Plain and the valley of Mudwater. Initially, it was a very popular trail since the trolls demanded a reasonable toll, rarely eating lone travelers or their livestock. Often, they were too sleepy due to the heavy damp air.
The castle was built later by King Venzel of Boym and Greatfield to ensure the safety of travellers. Lords of Damp Causeway were tasked with collecting the royal toll from merchants, while paying the trolls with meat and beer to spare the travellers and maintain the trail in good order.
Yet the old king died without an heir, and his lands were partitioned between his many more or less distant cousins and nephews, each striving to control the vital passage. For years, the castle passed from one hand to another, was besieged, burned, and even abandoned for a short time. Annoyed by the war and the lack of income, the trolls returned to the mountains, and the trail lost its significance.
Then came the rogue Lord Gilehaut with his company of brigands. Initially in the service of one of the pretenders to the throne, he occupied the castle in exchange for unpaid gold, and soon carved out his own domain, serving opportunistically one Duke or King or another. He started by extorting higher and higher tolls from the merchants, and when they left, turned to robbery and pillaging. Gilehaut made himself a fearsome reputation. People said that those foolish enough to challenge him were buried around his keep, giving it the moniker of the Mournful Guard. Local nobles swore fearful fealty to the new Lord of the Mournful Guard and paid him tribute, or rather racket, to keep their lands safe. His henchmen raided farther and farther away, spreading his dreadful fame. Imperial Sheriffs and Voights feared to enforce the law upon him after being beaten on several occasions.
Knowing what he did about evil knights, Archibald believed their fearsome qualities were usually exaggerated by fable and gossip, often carefully invented and spread by the rascals themselves. Archibald was also not a hothead but a seasoned warrior, leading his equally seasoned retinue to a score of victories over similar tyrants. The fame of the White Knight of Swanlake, justly earned, was no lesser than that of the Lord of the Mournful Guard.
***
Early in the evening, they reached the fortress.
The followers set up camp at a considerable distance, allowing them to flee or defend themselves if anything went wrong. Archibald ordered his squires to prepare his arms and armour, meanwhile sending out scouts and inspecting the battlements from afar.
Despite its grim name, it was a fairly handsome castle. Not too big, but picturesquely located on a small, rocky isle about a stone’s throw from the lakeshore and connected to the land with a wide natural landbridge.
The fortress comprised two main towers connected by a circular wall crowned with wooden hoarding. The bigger tower, a high, bulky keep, was located at the farthest end of the island, overseeing the lake, while the second gate tower with a drawbridge and a narrow moat confronted the incoming travelers. Several dilapidated headstones by the gate completed the image of the castle, justifying its fearsome name, although the beautiful weather somewhat lessened the effect.
The scouts soon reported that the castle gates were shut, but the drawbridge was lowered and the chain damaged so it could not be raised. The walls were unmanned, except for only a handful of not-too-careful guards. A strong smell of roasted meat and onion stew seemed to indicate that no one was expecting them.
Archibald decided he would waste no time inventing some subtle ruse, and soon the squires, in full battle dress, approached the raised drawbridge, preceding their master in a magnificent helmet crowned with a white mantle and the oaken wreath. The retainers advanced behind them, at some distance, crossbows at the ready in case of any suspicious movement on the battlements. Behind the goblin girls, the scholar, and the shepherd, followed out of sheer curiosity, peeking from behind the horses.
Later, the minstrels would tell the tale of the brass trumpets summoning the terrible goblin lord for a mighty duel that would last three days. Of shattered lances and cleaved shields. Of courage, sweat, and blood. Of the wickedness of evil and the righteous fury of the just. Of mercy shown to the vanquished but scorned with treachery. And of the final blow that put an end to the terror of the Damp Causeway. Finally, of the grateful, fair maiden, delivered from her captivity, and a magnificent wedding that would finalise the errant quest of the white knight.
And it would be mostly true. At least for the trumpets.~~
Chronica Goblinorum - or tales from the chronicle of the Goblins. 