Arthurian Cultivation

Book 2 Chapter 78 - A Woodsman

The force of the presence roused me. I was on the floor, Sephy’s shield beneath me, having cushioned my flight. My arm was on fire, and even with Sephy’s help I knew that my body was badly injured.My arm and ribs were screaming at me, but there was nothing louder than the presence before me. It took everything in me not to focus on the source of the power, and instead I looked for Maeve, the one who had given me the opportunity to seal away the relic. I couldn’t imagine the Saint had let the attack go unpunished. I looked over and saw a mess of blood. Maeve was wounded, but not alone.

Arthur stood over her, drawing ragged breaths.

He looked terrible. Blood darkened half his armour, and his legs shook, and I had to assume he’d used his gifts to stand before a strike far beyond what his body would ever allow. Even so, he held himself between her and the Saint with the sort of stubborn resolve of a lone knight prepared to stand before an entire army.

I could feel the moon glamour in the air. He’d taken a brutal strike meant for Maeve. It had its cost, though. He held nothing but a sword hilt, the blade shattered, red glowing fragments scattered on the floor.

Impossibly, he’d taken a direct hit from the Saint.

She wasn’t looking at him. Not sneering or preparing a follow-up strike. Like the rest of us, the Saint was focused on the fae power. The relic I had briefly contained once again hung freely on her hip. Its work useless, as what had fooled distant senses couldn’t scrub her from his sight.

“No, you thrice-cursed demon worshippers, what have you done. What have you fucking done!” Her curses rang round the hall. A litany of blasphemy followed as she stared at the carved stone oak, whose surface now rippled and shifted, becoming like living bark.

Something older and deeper than any glamour or aura we were throwing around held us all in place. It flowed round us like wind through leaves. My wounds eased a touch, each breath I drew felt richer in power as the realms grew close.

The living stone split apart, a gentle creak as the bark grew into an archway. The light reminded me of lying beneath a forest’s canopy at noon on a summer’s day, a deep green with hints of the sun breaking through here and there. Darker threads of branches gave structure to it, even as the breath of the wind caused it all to gently shift and shuffle.

From out of this he emerged. The Green Knight stepped through the opening and into our realm. The power he carried brought with it the smell of rain-soaked bark and old forests.

Seven foot tall, ignoring the helmet, he was unmistakably armoured as a knight, though that felt an inadequate comparison. Like comparing a lake to the ocean, he was just so much more, deeper and unknowable.

Antler-like branches rose from his helm in slow curling arcs that resembled the crown of an ancient stag, and every piece of armour looked grown rather than forged, plates of polished wood layered together so not even a needle might find a gap. Moss grew over him in the form of a tabard that decorated his chest, following behind him before shifting into a tight collection of leaves that spread out as a living cloak.

There was no hint of heraldry. He needed none.

Where the Lady of the Lake was serenity, a calm lake reflecting distant storms, offering impossible stillness that quieted the world around her, this presence felt entirely different. It was movement and growth and challenge all at once. The full bounty and threat of an entire forest compressed into the shape of a man.

None of us dared to make a sound.

His head swept over us, his attention lingering on Rensleigh for a moment before taking in the destroyed hall. When he spoke, it was deep. It reminded me of the time I was in a ship amidst a storm, the great timbers creaking all about me.

“I remember these halls. Great challengers once. They reached far and high, believing themselves better than the soil they were rooted in. They hunted, hoarded, and let it all go to rot. Not even permitting others to grow from the fertile soil of their refuse. It fell upon me to remind them of the simple truth that even the most ancient tree must respect the turning of the seasons.”

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The antlered helm turned slowly.

Its attention settled on the Saint.

“Yet thou art no wandering sapling come seeking wisdom. Thou art an interloper that crept beneath my canopy to spread rot wrapped in weak disguise, hiding thy scent from root and branch alike while thy greed insulted the very heart of this testament to memory.” His judgement landed upon her.

The Saint took a step back, her spear levelled at the fae.

“I felt thee not when first thou entered,” the fae continued, voice calm and patient as old stone. “That trickery alone might have earned thee a curious glance. Yet thou hast done more than trespass.”

The great antlers tilted slightly toward the hall around us. I felt the attention on us, as if my entire body was being picked apart.

“Thou hast defiled a place where oaths were once spoken, failed to give respect to the Oak, and laid greedy hands upon treasures beneath its boughs.” The voice boomed, and the Saint twitched again. To the side of the room, Mordred, Nermil, and the priest were pinned in place. Mordred’s face was a mask of rage, his skin almost purple.

The Green Knight took a step forward.

“Thus hast thou drawn my eye.”

His tone never changed, it held no emotion I could define. He didn’t seem angry or disappointed. It was the voice of judgement. Writhing roots emerged beneath his feet. From this, growing upwards until it reached his palm, was a long piece of wood. He gripped it and yanked it from the ground.

A heavy, huge woodsman’s axe, the head made of chipped flint.

“And thus hast thou earned my ire.”

The Saint moved suddenly. For a heartbeat I thought she might attack us, see part of her duty out.

Instead she ran.

The motion carried her towards the stairway, but the ruin betrayed her instantly as thick roots burst from the walls and coiled across the passage like fingers. Stone cracked under their weight as the growths anchored themselves to form living bars.

“Take him instead! I am not destined to die here. Take my hounds, take it all. I am the Spear Saint!” She spun back towards us with a snarl and hurled the Grail across the chamber.

The cup arced through the air towards Mordred, who caught it with the startled reflex of a man handed something far beyond his understanding. For a moment he simply stared at it while Tobias and the ratty wizard stepped towards him, the priest already whispering urgently into the paladin’s ear while Nermil hovered nearby with an uncertain expression, his hands rubbing together. He had the look of someone listening to advice he didn’t quite trust.

The Green Knight barely glanced at them.

His attention remained fixed on the Saint.

“No, I have no interest in saplings. Especially those who have upheld mine laws. Now to me, the Noble Strike is a most elegant law,” he said calmly. “For in that game the smallest twig may challenge the tallest oak, and none may claim the forest favoured them unfairly.”

For the first time, something changed in his tone. The stones ground as the roots squirmed.

“It is also a good way to clear the rotten wood, break it apart so it may feed new growth, and ensure warped growth is not left to linger. To clear the canopy for those who may grow tallest.” If I had to guess, he was smiling.

His helm turned briefly.

It paused on the still form of Rensleigh.

“That one among thy kind showed a rarer growth,” he said quietly. “Duty rooted deep in stubborn soil. Had she stood beneath my boughs in better seasons, I might have welcomed trading something other than an exchange of blows.”

Then his gaze returned to the Saint.

“But thou hast chosen thy path. Now take your strike.”

“I will not die here. The Prophets, they will never stop hunting for that. They will find you.” She ranted at us, at Mordred and the priest, her eyes full of hate. “They are to blame for this, making me things I am not. A shepherd, a hunter. I am the Spear Saint. I am—”

She shuddered in place, shook her shoulders, and breathed. Her tantrum over, the implacable Saint looked at the Green Knight.

She raised her spear.

“Today, it seems I shall be a woodsman.” She said calmly, before she let out a yell and attacked.

The sound carried more fury than fear as she lunged forward, driving the weapon into him with a force that would have shattered ordinary armour. Wood splintered under the impact and leaves burst outward in a violent cloud as she tore the blade free and struck again.

And again. She did not stop.

Each blow ripped away great chunks of the Green Knight’s body until he disappeared into a swirling cloud of drifting leaves and splintered branches.

She attacked harder with every strike, the wounds she carried earlier tearing open beneath the effort until blood soaked the front of her armour.

Finally she settled. The sound of leaves rustling and the taste of bark filled my mouth.

The swirling maelstrom of leaves gathered itself, and the Green Knight stood whole once more, not even a scratch to mark all her effort. He regarded her with mild approval.

“Thy blows are accepted.” His armour shifted as he spoke, thorned branches pushing outward from the wooden plates like a crown of growing briars.

“Given the number of thy strikes, the customary year of waiting be set aside.”

The Saint screamed something incoherent and lunged again. The fae didn’t care. The axe rose.

The axe fell.

And the Saint’s head tumbled to the side.

Her body remained standing for a heartbeat before collapsing onto the stone floor. The Green Knight lowered the axe and turned towards the rest of us.

And now the ruins felt very quiet.