This historian received a received a missive of the most from one who
proports to be the famous Sir Mortnoir himself. It perports to be
a biographical sketch, but describes life so unlike the Sir Mortnoir whom
the world encompassed by Heaven's vault that it can only be a brave fool
to would besmirch the life and brave deeds of the incomparable hero Sir
Mortnoir, or it is indeed from Sir Mortnoir himself. While all feats
of arms and acts of knightly courtesy have already been attributed to him,
and rightly, this letter, if from the hand of the great chalvalier himself,
reveals a scope of wit and wry sense of humor unsuspected. So let
there be no more commentary from this poor scholar. If what is here
written is a lie, Sir Mortnoir will soon have his vengenence upon the rogue.
If it is a jape, honor the great-hearted man who deigns to share it with
us:
Herewith follows the letter of Sir Mortnoir
"When but a callow youth of seventeen, I, born [here the manuscript is
partially illegible, as if bitten by a horse] and gradulated from the university
of [illegible], and in fear of a life of obscurity and poverty, considered
myself most fortunate to acquire the posiion personal secretary with the
famous Sir Mortnoir.
"That nobleman, and enfeebled by the rheumatism and superannuary years,
the famous kngiht-errant had engaged me with the special perupose of taking
down in clear hand his lengthy memoirs. Though over the course of
a year my master were paired like two felons in an oublette. Though
he spoke at endless length, until my quill dulled and my fingers ached,
I do not recall that he ever told me why any man would want to be a knight.
"I had long heard Sir Mortnoir spoken of as a hero. I found him a
rather disappointing specimen of the currency. Oh, I grant you Sir
Mortnoir might have been a fine figure of manhood in his day, but by the
time I made his acquaintence, he must have been nye to eighty. I
could never bring myself to grow warm toward the man, but his servants
worshipped him, as indeed seemingly all others did. His door was
scored by the knocking of an uncountable stream of petitioners, seeking
relief from a host of different tormentors and perils. Even royal
agents made their calls, importuning him to lead armies. All I can
say is that if a man like my master could lead an army, it could not have
been a difficult thing to do.
"What makes a hero? I cannot recall that the septuagenarian hero
ever actually did anything except give excuses, but his fame never seemed
to tarnish for all of that. It may be only that he had run out of
excuses for inaction that Sir Mortnoir ordered me with him to see, where
he intended to avoid the cold winter of the north and live upon the hospitality
of another still set of admirers before the former grew tired of him.
"The captain of our vessel endeavored to tie his own fame to Mortnoir's
and remaned his vessel, the The Sand Crab, to The Ship of Mortnoir, raising
not his own flag for the journey, but that of his famous passenger.
No doubt all who saw the ship believed my employer owne the ship, that,
yea, is was the flagship of a mightly fleet, as if he were Bilge Rath the
pirate, no less! I hardly think the old warrior had two coppers to
rub together, but it did not matter, considering how everyone catered to
him without thougth of reward.
"It seemd a grand life to be a hero, and neither did it seem to be phyically
taxing, so I asked the man outright how does one become a hero. He
must have had a premonition that he life was nearly over, for he answered
me soberly at last, without waxing longwinded about dragons vanquished
and caitiffs slain.
"'Keep close to your friends,'" he said, "'and your enemies out of sight.'
"That night I was wakened by the boatswain's shout: 'To the boats,
boy, the ship she's going down!'
How the tempest was tossing us! The Ship of Mortnoir was breaking
into peaces like a sand crab by the time I reached the deck.
"I remember little of that terrible night, at least not after I was pitched
from the deck and kept my head above water only by takening hold of the
masthead which was torn free. I was found upon the beach by girl
with straw-golden hair who ran away to fetch her father, the local inkeeper,
and his father's lackey, the ale?server Taplash. I was carried to
a inn room to rest and recooperate. When I next opened his eyes to
the lovely face of Llorna, it ease like being struck by the whip of the
love?goddesses.
"'Who -- Who?' I murmured.
"'I'm Llora. I found you. Are you some sort of shipwrecked
sailor?'
"I could not tell her that I was but a lowly scribe, so I feigned pain
to win her sympathy, but the girl seemed to grow bore with my maoning and
left he soon after. I found out only too soon that she loved a local
youth, Landru, who, as it happened, hoped to be a knight someday.
The innkeeper's wife was more cordial. "'You're a knight, aren't
you?' she asked. 'That was a knight's flag you saved from the sea
when they found you.'
'He ain't just a knight,' broke in the bald little man named Taplash, 'he's
a hero! That's Sir Mortnoir himself!"
"'No, I'm --' I began a denial, but then I thought better of it.
Being mistaken for Sir Mortnoir might be a way to get cozen room and board
out of these simple people for a while.
"'How you you know who I am -- uh, varlet?' I asked.
"'You kept sayhing in your sleep. Besides, there's no sea made that
could ever drown Sir Mortnoir!"
"'Funny, you don't look much like a hero," my land lady observed.
"'Of course he is!' declared Taplash, who seemed to be an ill-mannered
servant. 'Look at his green color. Don't they always say that
heroes aren't like you or me?'
"'Land sakes!' declared the woman. 'Fetch Llora; she has to meet
Sir Mortnoir before he vanishes into the sunset!'
"Now I was in a quandary. If I disabused these good people, I would
loose face in front of the fair Llora. But claiming to be Sir Mortnoir
might cause me to be mobbed by admiring villagers, to be embarrassed with
gifts, to be feasted and celebrated from dawn to dusk. In return
I -- well, to tell the truth, the real Sir Mortnoir never did very much
in return for all his adoration. Maybe the hero isn't the important
thing; maybe its the hero-worshper. The world simply needed to have
its heroes. How they seemed to swell with pride at their momentary
brush with greatness. It would be a cruel thing to take away that
from them. Besides, if the masquerade became too dangerous, I could
simply 'vanish into the sunset.' All the heroes did it. No
one asked questions.
There is much more in the hero's manuscript, of how he ineptly shamed himself
in his first joust, how he stole away from friends who had counted upon
him and how they were subsequently captured by slavers, how a princess
with a doleful curse sent agents to bring her to her lonely bower and ??
But a jest is only a jest. The "young scholar" of the author's fancy
is certainly just a whimsical figment of the true Sir Mortnoir, the merriest
of the merry, as exemplary with the pen as with the sword. Would
that my book held a thousand pages so that all the known deed of this great
and good man might be sung and justice done him. But the gods look
after their own and we need say no more here.