She was born in Spring, but awoke in Autumn. They taught her the names of all the forest creatures.
Her
uncle tipped his large black hat, and smoke rose from the cigar in his mouth. She stared at his face. Some of
him was deepest black, some of him was blinding white. Just like her.
He threw a ball to her, and she
caught it. She threw it back, and he caught it. It was their game, and they played until nightfall.
Her
father carried her, cradled in his dark cloak, hiding his old bones. Her aunts and uncles, and the rest of her
family followed.
They showed her the animals.
Next summer, it would be her job to keep the rabbits, the hens and the mice. Then, the summer after that, she
would keep the dogs, the cats and the fish. The summer after, the foxes, the deer, and the bears.
On and
on they said, each year she would keep more and more. Eventually, she would keep the children, the adults, and
the elders.
Autumn was over now, and Winter had come. She slept through Winter, and awoke in Spring.
She was under her father's cloak, draped over his farmers scythe. He was never without his cloak. Or his scythe.
"One day, you'll have your own tool. You'll use it to guide, to keep your flock safe. It will be your most important possession, just as the scythe is mine. You're uncle's cigar is his. Your grandmother's scales were hers."
Her father would never leave her, or the cloak, or the scythe. She knew this deep, in the marrow of her
bones.
Her family were gone. Nowhere to be found, and there was chaos.
The rabbits overflowed the
hutch, consuming all of the plants and grass. They were all sick, and hungry, and ravenous. Many should have
been taken by winter, and kept by her father, or her uncle.
It wasn't her job yet. It wasn't
Summer.
But still, she approached them, and stretched out her hand. For the first time, she touched them, slowly
caressing their fur, petting their heads, stroking their whiskers.
If there was no one to do the job,
then she resolved to start hers early.
The rabbits were easiest, and she understood why they were first.
The hens and the mice were harder, but she took them all the same. The ones that should have passed in winter,
that were long overdue now.
Alive against their will, against the natural order, poisoning those that
should still live. And tears welled in her eyes.
The dogs, the cats and the fish. They would be harder. But she had her father's cloak, and so she was
hidden from them, and she kept them. The ones that should have passed in winter.
She could feel their
empty hearts, see their blank eyes, and touch their broken bones. And she cried for them.
The foxes, the dear and the bears. She thought they would be too much, that she would be unable to keep them,
to care for them.
But she had to try all the same. She had her father's scythe. And it helped. She
swayed, she swung, and she cut. And she wept for them.
Last, was the hardest of all. The children, the adults and the elders. As she entered the village, she saw
they had been taken already, by a strange man. A strange man, covered in stitches, and smoking her uncle's
cigar.
A man whose arms were strangers to his legs, and his legs were strangers to his chest, and even
his chest was a stranger to his head. And when he saw her, he dropped her uncle's cigar, and he
ran.
His strange legs, too long for his body. His strange arms, too thin for his chest.
She picked up her uncle's cigar, and she followed the strange man. He ran through the gate, and the
church, and the tower.
As she neared the gate, she saw a strange dog, covered in stitches. His feet were
strangers to his legs, and his legs were strangers to his body. Even his body was a stranger to his
head.
The strange dog was not meant to be here. He was meant to have passed, probably many winters ago.
Same as the strange man.
The dog barked and growled, and snarled. He would not be kept by her. He refused.
She looked at her
father's cloak, and knew it would not help. Then his scythe, and knew it would not help. She looked at her
uncle's cigar, and knew it would not help.
She shut her eyes, and in her mind, the ball appeared. The
one she would throw, to her uncle, and her father. The ball they would throw to her.
She opened her eyes,
and threw the ball to the strange dog. And he caught it. And when she opened the gate, the strange dog brought
it to her. And she caressed his fur. Pet his head, stroked his whiskers.
She opened the door to the church, and inside was her family. Trapped behind glass, behind iron and silver.
The strange man was keeping them, and she knew it was to stop himself from being kept. He was afraid.
The
strange dog followed her, and she opened the door to the tower. Inside, the strange man hurried. He was
building a new contraption, of glass, and iron and silver. One that was meant for her.
She looked at the
strange dog, ball still held in his mouth, and told him to go to his master.
The strange men scratched
the strange dog's ear, and then plucked the ball from his mouth.
He froze. He stared, and he whispered.
She walked, she turned, and she danced.
He didn't move now, fear had overcome him. She returned the cigar to him, and he smoked it. She touched the ball in his hand, and he dropped it.
She drew the scythe against the thread, and she cut it.
And they fell away. First his fingers, and his hands, and his arms. Second his toes, and his feet, and his legs. Third his chest, and his neck, and his head.
She opened the glass, and the iron, and the silver. And her father smiled. And her uncle clapped. And she danced.
The ocean swelled and raged, spurred onwards by the southerly wind. The winds had been blowing this way for
twelve years, beating back any ship that would attempt to cross northwards, and land on the green
beaches.
Lining the shore, trees bent, desperately grasping the ground. One might think they were
afraid of falling up into the sky, such was their hold on the Earth.
Foreigners called this land The
Canopy - for it's lush and numerous forests. Inhabitants called it Shaman's land. To do otherwise
was treason. The Shaman had no tolerance for treason.
For twelve years she had been the Shaman. Like
her sister before her, and her mother, and her grandmother, her word was law. She alone controlled the
weather here, her power was so great.
At her whim, the winds would change. But she had no such whim.
Any travelers from the South were sure to be crushed in the waves if they dared brave them. That was her
command.
Her subjects feared her, as the mouse fears the hawk. They served her completely, never wavering, never
questioning. Those few doubters had been removed when she took the palace from her sister.
The strength
of her family's magic was absolute. Unconquerable. And hers even more so. She had discovered at fifteen,
that her sister could not best her. And since her sister had taken the palace from their mother.
Well.
It was only natural that she should hold power over Shaman's Land. The strongest will consumes all.
Those were her grandmothers words.
Her grandmother had abdicated the palace, and left it to her mother.
She had recognized the strongest willed, and conceded her power. This was the way it should have been. But
her sister had rebelled. She had challenged her power. Challenges could not be ignored.
So now, she was not only the strongest. She was the only. Her sister had birthed only sons, and the magic
was only passed from mother to daughter.
But despite her power. Despite her dominance, she had not born
a child. It pressed on her mind, and in response, her will grew stronger. Unseen forces tore at the
forests.
The many creatures of the sky were thrown haphazardly. Homes left the ground, and the people
with them. Refuse swirled in the air, as her anger grew. No one had seen power of this strength before. She
would prove her strength every day. She would impose her will upon the land, until she had made her reality.
Her rage swelled, and there was no keeping it hidden. Her anger and her will, one and the same. Her subjects
collapsed in desperation. Others were carried away, up into the sky. Eventually, the bodies would return.
The anger was worse now, stronger even, then the time she had been challenged. Her family was supposed to
love her. Support her. Her
sister should have known she was strongest. Her sister should not have forced her to kill.
The ocean swelled and raged, spurred onwards by the southerly wind. A single, solitary ship, braved the
turbulence. It skipped over the chaos, and the lone sailor caressed the waves.
If they had not been
dashed against the beach, the fishermen could have warned the scouts. If they had not been trampled under
the hooves of their mounts, the scouts could have warned the sentries. If they had been carried into the
sky, then her sentries could have warned her personal guard. And if her personal guard had not been crushed
against the floor, by the supreme and ultimate power of her will, her personal guard could have warned her.
So instead, the lone sailor carried her ship over the turbulent waves. The sailor skipped from her ship, and
laid on the green beaches. She had not felt the grasses in so many years after all. She frolicked, making
her way in a leisurely fashion. While the ground was swept into the sky, and the sky crashed into the
ground, the sailor continued, towards
the palace.
The doors to the palace had been flung open by the wind, and torn from the hinges. The shaman glared out the empty hole, directing her rage to sweep the land. Towards the palace now, approached the sailor, face hidden by hood and cloak. The wind carried homes, and horses, and ships, but it did not touch the sailor. The Shaman steeled herself, and renewed her will. From around her, chairs, tables, carpets - all of her possessions were taken by the wind, and aimed at the sailor. The sailor carefully placed a foot on the first chair, and continued her dance. The sailor leapt from chair, to chair, to table, to carpet. Unbound by wind. Unmoved by will. Tears streamed down The Shaman's face now. Was she not the strongest, after all? She waited for the knife, or the sword, or the axe, that was surely under the Sailor's cloak. But there was no knife. No sword, and no axe. Only a cloak, wrapping around her now.
"The strongest will consumes all." Her grandmother's words emerged from the cloak, echoing through the palace halls.
"It consumed your mother. It consumed your sister. And now, it reaches it's final destination. To consume you."
The Shaman gasped, but could not breathe. The wind stole her breath, and finally, she understood her grandmother's words.
She willed herself to not to be consumed. She willed herself to release it, knowing she would never wield it again. Never grasp the wind. Never even feel the air.
She held in her hands, the empty cloak.
For the first time in 12 years, no wind blew over Shaman's land.
I resisted the urge to scratch. Last thing I needed now was to tear up my old scalp. The locals were already
repulsed by me.
If it wasn't for my hunched shoulders, oily burnt skin, crooked nose, scraggly hair and
beard, I would be the picture of confidence.
But my appearance did lead credence to my story. Even though
my story was a lie.
It all factored into my reputation, you see. As a wizard. Yes, the great and powerful
Velathorix. The horrible old mage, able to curse your enemy, and his unborn sons.
Residing in the old
ruined house, where that old woman had died of the pox.
I'd been performing illusions on the streets of
this beautiful town for months, entertaining passerbys with my myriad of tricks.
And paying the street urchins to relieve my audience of their pockets and bags
Nevermind that the odd coin or card trick required no supernatural power, I wasn't about to tell my marks that.
I was worried though. Recently, soldiers had been flooding the town, and word was the king's brother was
coming with an army to take it by force.
I thought the priest had come to move me along, when I saw him in
the crowd. An upstanding member of the church shouldn't be seen engaging with a vile street wizard, such
as myself.
"I've heard they call you Velathorix. Did you pick that name because it sounded
intimidating? Or are you secretly a fan of the 7th testament?"
I chuckled under my breath as we
walked, but said nothing. I hoped I would make him uncomfortable enough to leave me alone. The last thing I
wanted was scrutiny from the bloody church.
"Okay, Velathorix. I can understand that you are ...
apprehensive, talking to me." I waited for him to continue, but he was clearly trying to bait out a
response.
I flicked my hand up abruptly, hoping to make him flinch, and casually swept my unkempt hair out
of me eyes.
We continued down the cobblestone path, I exaggerating my limp, and he paying it no attention. Damn, he was
sharp.
I supposed he must be familiar with beggars and con men, in his position at the church, and that he
had correctly assessed my exaggerations as the work of an experienced hustler.
We continued, the silence
building between us, the gears in my mind grinding against each other. I'd been planning to collect the
snakeskin bag from the urchins, before they could spend it's contents.
But the priest continued by my
side, and I had to deal with him before I could go about my business.
"Look, you must know I'm no
fan of the church, or any of your damned testaments. Why are you following me? I'm an old man with weary
bones, and I know you have no interest in my petty parlor tricks."
The priest smiled, and launched into his spiel as if we hadn't been walking in complete silence for the
past 5 minutes.
"My name is Father Faust. I have been tasked by the king's chancellor with a most
unusual request." He paused for an uncomfortable amount of time, and I was about to start on him, when he
continued
"There's an army approaching our town. An army belonging to the king's younger
brother, Prince Alverson. The king has of course, responded by assembling a force within the
town."
"Yes, I'd noticed the glut of young men coming around, stomping about and frightening
the locals." I tried to make my sneer a scathing one.
"Hm, well there's a rumour going around
the soldiers, that Prince Alverson has a secret weapon. A wizard of considerable vile power, that could easily
dismantle the towns defenses."
A rising sound escaped my belly, my shoulders shook as I laughed
loudly, shirking my feeble persona.
"I see. So you've been tasked with finding your own vile
magician, to what end?"
"Oh. No, I don't believe this wizard is any threat to the men. I'm fully aware that you are
simple tricksters, worming your way into feebleminded men's fears.
But that's not to say you
don't have value. This enemy is no more a threat then you are."
He pushed my shoulder, and I would
have clattered to the floor, except he used his other hand to catch me. I glared at him, and swept my hair out
of my eyeline again.
"Not going to curse me, are you?" He chuckled. "Now, unfortunately, the
regular man does not understand that you're a simple confidence man."
I kept my glare fixed on
him, hoping I would see him falter or panic, but he betrayed no sign of worry. Once again, I resigned to
myself, he was above being fooled.
"Which is why, I'm here, talking to you. Since the rabble so
whole heartedly believe an agent of evil has been employed by the enemy, the king wants a similar force on our
side.
Someone that can belay the men's fears, give them some confidence that the dastardly wizard will
be too busy fighting one of his own kind to turn his ire on them."
Well, now the priest was talking my language. I straightened out my shoulders, and relaxed my posture, now
half a head taller then I'd been seconds ago.
We continued walking, he much the same, and my limp,
hardly noticeable.
"I suppose we could discuss an arrangement. I assume there will be generous
compensation. I'll require payment in silver."
Father Faust gave me a curious glance, surprised at
my newfound agility. Maybe he hadn't realised the full scope of my act after all.
"I'm a very
confidant man, Father Faust."
We had a scarce few weeks to prepare for the oncoming battle. Prince Alverson assembled his fighting force
from the western cities, they took some time to organise and march.
I'd scrounged up every piece of
information I could find on the enemy wizard in his employ. Thankfully, he was familiar. The
Forizian.
I'd seen his act several times, and he was damned good. Bold, self assured, he played a very
dangerous game. Fire was his specialty, and it took great skill to not get burned.
My initial assessment was bolstered, as I talked to the sentries keeping tabs on the enemy
positions.
"I've seen it, wizard. I've seen him summon flames from the earth, and extinguish
them just as easily."
I smiled knowingly. Yes, he'd obviously improved his act if he'd managed
to fool this prince. Or even if the prince was just using him to boost the confidence of his army.
It took
a lot of trust, and desperation for someone born so high, to stoop so low.
Faust had introduced me to the chancellor as well, a round man that had little interest in my talents. He
clearly had his hands in multiple pots, refusing to bet too hard on any one factor.
I'd have to play
Faust harder if I wanted to profit.
"Father Faust. We have something very important to discuss." He massaged his temple. This was the
fourth time I had goaded him into a conversation.
He obviously expected it to be about my payment, but each
time I pivoted away from the matter.
"It's about redemption." I watched the confusion in his
eyes, flow down to his frown.
"I know our enemy magician well. He's wise, and well travelled.
Quite famous in the Westlands. He performed his magic in theatres and for gentlemen and ladies of high
standing.
I would expect that by now, the common men of our town would know of his reputation."
His
frown had developed into a scowl, and I hoped I wasn't laying my act on too thick.
"We will not convince our soldiers that I am some marvelously capable wizard, able to overpower his
magic. Or, even if we did, we might not reduce their fear of the enemy, so much as increase their fear of
magic."
He took some time to mull over my words. He was a man of god after all, and couldn't have loved the idea
of encouraging a belief in sorcery.
"Ok. What's your point? What does that have to do with
redemption? And if you can't discredit this enemy wizard, then what use are you to me?"
A devilish
grin spread across my cheek.
"I can ruin the wizards reputation among our men. But not with magic. I
will have to employ something more trustworthy. Something... holier." I glanced. Still
confused.
"You were right, I called myself Velathorix because it sounds threatening, I held no
allusion to the testaments. But it's a lucky coincidence. Much like my namesake, I could use redemption in
the eyes of our gods.
The Forizian will make a great showing of his fire on the battlefield, Faust. I plan
to show his magic is powerless against true believers in our lord."
Our soldiers stood, shining and glorious, as the sun crept above the rocky crags in the East. Formed across
from us, merely a cavalry charge away - stood our enemy. The Westlands Alliance.
At their head, a figure
and his steed clad in green and black. Prince Alverson, I assumed. I was curiously yet to see my counterpart,
The Forizian. Idly, I wondered if he would recognise me.
I struggled to remember the name I had used at the
time, and what kind of disguise I had worn. Maybe I was Dellator, the magical carpenter? Oravalder, the
southern merchant from across the sea?
No matter. Now I was a single unarmed figure, covered by a heavy
cloak. The soldiers kept their distance, I stank of flashfire oil.
As me eyes scanned the front line of
enemy troops, a horrible realisation dawned on me. I had seen The Forizian.
My head swiveled, as I laid
eyes upon him. I had passed over him, assuming another knight, but no, he held a banner, picturing a man
surrounded by flame. That made it obvious now.
Riding a pale horse, and wearing a full suit of armour, my mind boggled. He was a knight of the
Westlands?
My thoughts were cut short, as he rode in front of the lines, and raised his banner. He was
starting the show.
My eyes flicked around the battlefield. Fire erupted from the ground, The Forizian and
his steed toured his line of soldiers.
I felt our lines shrink, men gasping, shields lowering. Our enemy
was putting on a masterful show, and we were a captive audience.
They had picked a terrible battlefield to
fight our cavalry, and it was obvious to me that victory lied in seizing the initiative.
But they'd
played their hand perfectly - the archers were stunned, and the horses were terrified. By the gods, our line
might break without a single death, their display was so great.
The enemy infantry began their advance, and I threw a glance to Father Faust. His eyes pleaded with me. I
think they'd waited long enough. Time to reveal my hand.
While our men refused to budge, I approached
the enemy line. My eyes remained glued to the man clad in flames, riding his pale horse.
Somewhere behind
me, I heard Father Faust start the speech we'd prepared. I only hoped our other priests followed suit.
"Trust in the gods, the firetender, the watcher, the hunter! Believe not the illusions of our enemy! Believe not in the devils flames!"
Father Faust's voice faded in my ears as I continued my march. I trusted in one thing above all else. The Forizian's sense of theatrics.
The Forizian raised his banner again. My hands shifted beneath my cloak, specially fashioned from wetsilk -
it would protect me from the flames for a precious few seconds.
I sparked the flint in my hands, and my
cloak caught alight right on cue. Fire erupted from the ground.
"Please gods, forgive me for my
sins!"
The thin layer of pungent oil covering my cloak burned with it's trademark speed, and I
turned my back to our enemy. The fire rose up, surrounding my body.
"I repent!"
And then the
flashfire oil was done, the thin spread burned away, not hot enough to burn the wetsilk cloak.
Father Faust's voice returned to my ears.
"As told by the testaments, even the sins of Velathorix can be absolved!"
A cheer erupted from our line, and the cavalry spurred on, despite the protest of the horses.
I fled the battle, confidant in our victory. It was no place for an old trickster, and I had to fetch the
payment stashed away.
I was sure the silver wouldn't last long in my possession, before some more
upstanding men decided I must have stolen it. How else would an old hustler own such a thing?
I hauled the
bucket up the unused water well. No one knew I'd replaced the rotten rope.
People were too afraid to
enter this old house, ever since that old women had died of pox here. I hadn't even made up a name for
her, but still the peasants believed the story.
I fashioned my cloak into a bundle, holding the king's silver bars, and removed my clothes. These, I
would have to burn. I turned a silver bar over, regarding my reflection.
My hunched shoulders.
My oily
skin.
My crooked nose.
My scraggly beard.
I straightened my shoulders and back, for the first time in
hours. I wonder if pretending to have this stoop would eventually give me a real one.
I spread a cream over
my skin, and left it to sit. Removing it would take the filth and oil away, revealing my natural tan
complexion.
Raising a hand to my face, I teared at the crooked clay affixed there. Underneath lay the small
upturned nose I had hidden for so long.
Next, the clay on my chin, with scraggly hairs interspersed
throughout. And the clay on my head, falling to the floor along with dirty matted hair.
Cutting away the
pig skin I had tucked my real hair into was the end. Velathorix was dead.
Stretching out my neck, I
tenderly touched the clay pretending to be an Adam's apple. It should last the rest of the day.
I started by drawing a scar on my forehead. It would mostly be hidden by my pitch black hair, so I reminded myself to occasionally brush it from my eyes. I took a few hours, perfecting my new look.
Now, I stood tall in my shining armour, framing my tanned skin, pointedly staring down a prominent, manly nose, and sweeping back my fine black hair, I was the picture of confidence.
He breathed in the scent of the forest. He could smell the river, and the horses, all around. The song
birds
that danced through the trees. The critters that scurried along the ground. The runaway princess.
He
struggled to ignore the scent of his companions. Warriors sent by the king, to assist him in
tracking
down the princess. They stunk of sweat, and aggression.
He listened to the sounds of the forest. The
clinking metal of his companions. The beat of hooves on stone. With that sick metallic ring.
He turned to
his thirty or so companions, and they averted their eyes. It pained people to look at his burned, scarred
skin.
"You people are so distracting. I cannot track the princess with you all carousing in my
presence." He lied.
"Shut up elf. If you can't find the princess, we'll fetch the dogs.
They might not return 'er in one piece, but they'll find her." The captain stared into his
eyes,
and then averted his gaze once more.
He wandered away from the group slowly, to see if they would follow. He could hear them setting up the
camp,
and for all of his bluster, the captain seemed conflict averse enough to let him go.
The elf was from the
old world, from a time before the dominance of men. He'd been a great hero once. He'd had a hundred
names. The savior of Brandibull. The knife of Port Lutkin. Wind Walker. Rot Slayer.
But now, he was just
the elf. Fitting of course, since he was the last one. The only survivor of the great fire. Funny, that
among
his people, he had been a mediocre tracker. Yet now, he was the greatest in the world.
He smiled, moving
through the forest. It was new. The last time he'd been here, there was little more then lakes and
shrubbery. He struggled to remember how long ago that was.
What was it he had done here? There was a lake, certainly. He'd trapped something in the lake. Under
the
lake? In some caves? With who? Chief Haverstin? Or his grandson? No, they were the sailors, on the ocean,
not
a lake.
His memories crashed to a stop. Something smelled off. Familiar, but he couldn't place it.
The
scent led away from the princess' trail, and it was mixed with the smell of men. Similar to his new
companions.
He clutched the cracked, broken pendant that hung from his neck. According to his journals,
it
should help him to remember. Fat load of good it did, he couldn't even remember where he'd found
it.
As he crept along, following the scent, he smelled other things, almost familiar. Damp on the air,
and
the ground was turning to swamp. It hadn't smelled like this last time. It had smelled like a crisp,
clean
lake.
There, an old campfire. How old? Months? Men had been here. To this swamp, that was once a lake.
His
breathing quickened, against his will. This was why he hadn't been a tracker, the lack of control.
He
smelled a hundred things. The camp. The men. The dogs. The horses. A family of squirrels, a flock of song
birds, the aver trees, blood, steel, smoke. He shut his eyes, trying to expel the thoughts.
The elf ran.
The men had come here, to this old, cursed place. Maybe they hadn't known, by the gods, he could barely
remember. Long ago, he'd fought something terrible here. But what was it, and why couldn't it be
killed?
His companions stared as he flew into their camp, sweat coursing down his scarred
skin.
"Where have you been?" He ignored the captain's question, and bent down to his
pack.
"Something is wrong here. I was here a long time ago, but don't remember why." There.
His journals. He retrieved the tomes, his memories. "I need some time, we could all be in danger
here."
The captain shrugged. Night was falling. They would resume the search at dawn.
The elf poured over his tomes, his precious memories. So many felt foreign to him, written by a person so
different. There were his journeys, on the lost ocean with Chief Haverstin.
And then back across them
with
his grandson, of course, then it was called the ancient ocean. These were too recent. This memory was
older.
Maybe when he journeyed with Golkath the blood eater? There were caves then, for sure. Were there
lakes? No, no no. The Axe of Brandibull maybe?
There'd been no lake in Brandibull, but they'd
travelled far to find whatever trinket the people of Brandibull needed. Ah, no, he'd killed the Axe of
Brandibull, after the man went mad with power.
Tash'nya the avenger? The heroes five of Port Lutkin?
He
was running out of time. Soon, the sun would rise, and the men would need him again, to chase the princess.
No.
It couldn't be, could it? He opened a journal, it was the oldest, but no one would think that, since it was practically untouched. Only the first few pages had any words written.
You complete fool. You won't remember this, but I have lost the most important possession. My
journal, where I catalogued the adventures taken with the great Dev Hakar.
Among them was a
terrible mission, that I failed completely. It was the beginning of these spells of forgetfulness that we
are now accustomed to. You must find the journal.
In the event that you do not improve upon my
terrible skill of finding peoples and objects, than I must resolve to write down what I do remember while
I
can.
If you remember nothing else, than at least take with you this name. For it is more dear
to
me than any other. Arrabelle of Lenore. It is for she that we must remember.
He obviously hadn't gotten far in his endeavour, due to his useless old brain, but there was rarely a mention of his missing journal throughout the other texts he's scribbled down.
I won't start at the beginning, because I don't remember it. The important facts are as
follows.
You travelled across barren wastes and sunken cities with a great magician, Dev
Hakar.
Now, I know you hate magicians - The elf blinked. Did he?
So when I call him a great man, and
even better friend, you take it seriously. That scar down the palm of your left hand was worth it, because
you saved his life when you got it.
He stared at his left hand, skin shiny and discolored. Had
there
been some other scar there, once? The fires had taken more from him than he had ever realized.
The
Dragon of Morosia, the Million Man Army, and the ThunderKeeper. All terrible threats that could have
destroyed everything you loved, and it was with Dev Hakar you stopped them.
You had other
companions, I don't remember much about them, but their names. At least, some kind of name they used;
Finheld of Aran Thorn. Golizar the Blood Seeker-
Huh. He could have sworn it was Golkath the blood
drinker. He skimmed other names, some half remembered, others completely foreign.
Had he really fought
against an army of a million men? That didn't seem correct. Maybe it was just a name. An endless ocean
of
men, stopped by a magician and an amnesiac elf.
There's a great lake, so great, that many believe it to be an ocean. You of course know better.
From
a days walk away, you can smell no salt, only the fresh air.
But still so great, that walking
around it would have taken months, months you didn't have. Dev Hakar brought a ship with him, over
land,
and you all sailed on the lake.
He paused, eyebrows raised. This Dev Hakar character did seem
interesting after all.
I was fleeing a great power. It was this power that caused the spells of
forgetting. Across the lake, you retrieved something very old. What it was, I do not
remember.
But it was older than men, and elves, and dragons. It was old when you were born,
maybe it was always old. It was supposed to end the power that chased us, but we
misunderstood.
Because of this misunderstanding, we had to fight a great battle. A number of
my
allies were lost. Including sweet Arrabelle. She was like a daughter to me, and I don't remember her
face.
You have probably forgotten her completely. Damn this horrible mind.
"Hey, elf, you alright there?" The captain looked at me, concern in his eyes. He seemed entirely
unlike the man he had travelled with thus far.
The elf closed his journal, stashed them all away, and
wiped
a tear from his eye.
"Yes, I will be fine. Well, so long as whatever I did here in the past
doesn't come back to haunt us." The captain looked at him, confused, but nodded.
The twenty or so of them left the camp, having packed their belongings. It seemed a lot of gear for a group of this size.
The elf prepared to lead the group once again, but to his surprise, one of the other men took his spot.
Well,
he seemed to be roughly going in the correct direction, and this would let the elf continue his
reading.
Why not let the men play tracker for awhile?
We were chased, across the ocean, and the land, and the lake. A great and terrible creature, and one
entirely familiar to me. She was an elf, and we were obviously getting rarer.
Somehow, we
expected the trinket to prevent her powers. Alas, it was severed. Broken. It could not help us against
her.
Luckily, Dev Hakar had a backup plan. He used something else, some other kind of magic.
It
trapped her, sealed her away. It cost your allies their lives. Dev Hakar survived at
least.
But
there was still the matter of Dev Hakar's prison. You chained it to the ship, and sunk the entire
thing
to the bottom of the lake. Twenty five heroes departed on that boat. Fewer than ten came back.
He stopped. There was more, but the group was veering too far off course, and it was time to reign them
back
in.
"Captain, I think it's best if I take lead of the expedition again, your man here is abysmal
at tracking." The captain continued forward in silence.
The elf poked his shoulder, and the captain
turned curiously.
"Did you hear me, Captain?" The man looked incredulous now. Eyes wide, mouth
hanging open. "Are you talking to me?"
The elf turned to look at the other members of their
party, and they had all stopped now, regarding the action amongst them.
"Hey!" The man that had
been leading the party yelled. "Keep moving, or we'll never find our way out of this damned
forest!"
The elf stared at him, and his heartbeat quickened.
"Do ... do any of you remember why we are
here?" They all looked at him, confused.
"Well, we're lost. We're trying to get out of
this forest, back to uh. Our village?" The questions sounded like ringing bells in his
mind.
"You
all go on ahead now." The elf choked out. "I'll be right behind you." Within minutes,
they
were gone. And the elf continued following the scent. The runaway princess.
Fear filled his mind, where
memories should be. He tried to open the journal, but the binding felt like solid steel in his grip.
He
walked, and the land got muddier. The scent grew stronger. His fear crept higher, up the back of his neck.
How long had he walked, through the swamp and muck? The sun still hung in the sky. Had it fallen, and risen
again?
What lay at the end of this path? Had it fooled the men of this country, into thinking it was some
harmless princess? Was it the enemy he'd scratched into the tome, only half remembered?
He saw
footprints on the ground in front of him, and they were old. Weeks maybe. Not his own, thank the
gods.
They
roughly followed the same path the scent was taking him. To old, rotted wood, embedded half in the swamp. A
ship.
And on that ship, tears streaming down her face, a girl. His vision blurred. A shriek escaped her lips,
catching sight of him. Now why would that be? He looked at his hands, and one clutched a knife. How long had
he been holding it?
The knife sank into the mud, and his hands trembled. Wretched sobs escaped his mouth.
When had he started crying?
Splash
The girl, stumbling, took to the mud. She wasn't just shrieking, she was saying something.
"Salendorn!"
It sounded strangely familiar. He collapsed into the swamp. Just how did one stand up again? Cold seeped down his back, and a familiar warmth pressed into his chest.
"Is it really you, Salendorn? I'm so sorry, I didn't recognise you! What happened? Your
beautiful face?" She sobbed, arms stuck in the swamp, trying desperately to lift him out of the
muck.
"You have me at a disadvantage, I am afraid I don't remember much at all. For some reason
though, I think I am supposed to give you something?" The pendant hung from his neck, cracked, broken,
and entirely useless.
Until it touched the trinket around hers.
Two halves became one, and a great
power
was contained again.
"Arrabelle."
The tears kept coming, but he remembered why now.
Princess Avely reflected her mother's smile. She could put up with the flowers and the finery. They'd
been so worried, how could she have ever scared them so?
She glanced around the room, taking in the
opulence. Silver decorated the fixtures, and the softest of furs adorned the furniture.
Her mother, the
queen - was dressed in excessive garments, the very kind she hated, but tolerated.
"We are so glad you
came back." Her mother smiled warmly, a rosy complexion taking over her round face. "War is no place
for a princess like yourself."
Though they did not yet know, an imposter had appeared. While one princess fled the castle, another had arrived, to lead a desperate defense.
Their charge broke the enemy flank, and hooves clashed against armor and meat, echoing thunder across the
battlefield. Her lance stuck hard in the enemy knight, and she was forced to relinquish it.
Princess Avely
drew her sabre, and bode the cavalry forward. They were heavily outnumbered, but their quality was so much
greater.
The men hadn't expected a royal to lead them, and her sudden appearance had shocked them all.
Commander Kurst had given word of the royal family's escape, but then, he'd fallen, struck by a volley
of arrows.
But Princess Avely was made of something stronger, unbefitting of a princess, they said. She
would've been the black sheep of the family, if she wasn't the only heir.
If they didn't make a
stand here, then there would be no place to flee to. Her grandfather had been the last military man to hold
the throne, and she was the only one willing to fill his shoes. They didn't understand the stakes.
They
still thought there was someone else that would save the day. A mysterious hero with a golden heart. But
reality didn't work like that. You had to be your own hero. Or there would be none at all.
"Do you remember Prince Gaveston? You would have been very young, the last time you met." Her
mother grasped her hand, leading it towards his. Hope sparkled in her eyes.
"I'm afraid you have
me at a disadvantage, Prince." The warmth returned to her face. After all the time spent in her
mother's company, it was a welcome, if rare, experience.
"It has been a very long time, and you
were definitely more interested in boys your own age." The prince wasn't that much older than her,
maybe seven or eight years, but enough to feel like a lifetime for a child.
He was tall, and broad, and
confidant. She'd heard there were troubles brewing with his brother, who was set to become Duke upon the
death of their father.
"I hear you're a master fencer, Prince Gaveston. Maybe I'll get to see
you compete sometime?" She clutched his arm, and held him close.
She understood her part in this play.
The Gaveston family could very well prove their salvation, assuming that the enemy crushed their defenses back
at the castle.
He was a single Prince, looking for a wife. She was a single Princess, desperately in need
of an army. Marriages had been made for worse reasons.
His horse collapsed, dragging him down to the ground, crushing his legs. The stolen lance came clean, and she
spurred her steed onwards.
The soldiers in the East cheered, as her cavalry swept the enemy, and she thrust
the lance clean through another knight. Back home, no one had believed in her. But she was a warrior, born for
battle.
Princess Avely crested the hill, and tying a banner to the end of the stolen lance, raised it above
her head in victory. The enemy fled before them, and against all odds, she had led her army to
salvation.
The soldiers sung her name, and they drank merrily. The scouts confirmed the enemy routed, and
their commander dead. They'd been in the field for months, and at last, the grueling war was over. She
could return home.
The procession marched, bearing the royal standard. Carriages, covered in the finest trappings, flooded the
town, leading the crowd of peasants up to the castle.
Princess Avely stared at Gaveston, who in turn,
stared off into the distance. His usual friendliness was replaced by an impenetrable exterior.
Against all
odds, somehow their army had defeated the enemy. She wouldn't have to marry him after all.
"We
must reward the commander that so bravely took up arms to defend the castle!" Her mother bubbled, and
waves of excitement broke against Gaveston's stone face.
"You haven't heard the rumors,
then?" His face betrayed nothing. What she would give to be able to see into his
mind.
"Rumours?" The Princess and her mother spoke at the same time, and then giggled
incessantly. "Whatever about?" But he was staring at the countryside again, refusing to answer.
Princess Avely toured the castle with her knights, freshly picked from those tested, battle hardened, loyal
soldiers that had accompanied her in the battle.
The procession had arrived, and so she prepared to greet
her mother, and her guests, in the great hall. Still adorned in the royal armor, and carrying her
grandfather's sabre.
The stolen lance she had left, banner affixed, to mark the battlefield. A symbol
of defiance.
This was the closest your army will ever get. If you can, come and take your lance. No enemy shall cross this line.
Accompanying her mother, was the Prince Gaveston. Unexpected. Her mother must have approached them for an
allegiance. Well, it didn't matter now, she had taken care of the matter without their
assistance.
Their was a grave look on his face though, and that concerned her. And then she saw something,
that confused her. Trailing behind Gaveston, was a familiar face. One shockingly similar to her own.
She was a little shorter, maybe an inch. And the woman's hair was too long, she liked it short, for practical reasons. And she was thin, and dainty. She wouldn't last a minute on the battlefield.
Queen Avely stared in shock, and stepped back, to take in both women. The far too similar women.
"Who are you, and what are you doing in the royal armor!?" The queen shrieked, her cheeks turning a deep red. Princess Avely adjusted her fancy skirts, and glared at the armored woman.
She was a little taller, maybe an inch. And the woman's hair was too short, no self respecting lady would crop her hair so close. And she was broad shouldered and waisted. Hardly the image of a princess.
The two princesses stared each other down, while Queen Avely dropped to the floor.
Queen Avely's
guards approached, and the princess gestured to the armor clad woman. "You heard the queen, she is an
intruder, arrest her!"
Princess Avely's knights responded by drawing their swords, and the two
groups stared each other down. Confusion reigned, neither side daring to make a move.
"Gaveston! Do
something!" She pleaded, hand caressing his back. They were slated to be married. He drew his sword.
"You guards should probably stand down. We can settle this." He gestured to the armor clad
Princess.
"Prince Gaveston." She chuckled. "You're very good. I remember visiting you
when I was a child. We watched you defeat ten men, all fine fencers themselves." She drew her
grandfather's sabre.
Some emotion crossed his face, before he banished it. Worry? Confusion? Understanding?
She'd
always been talented with a sword. Despite her mother's protests, her father had employed a renowned
master to coach her. Still, she wouldn't have dreamed of beating someone of Gaveston's skill.
Until
the war, of course. She'd learnt three very important things about herself. For one, she thrived under
pressure. Two, she was born to be a warrior. And three; Months of war had taught her so much more then years
of training.
He started cautiously, throwing quick, noncommittal thrusts, designed to test her defenses.
She held her blade aloft, and barely shifted her hand, angling his sword away from her. You could barely call
it a parry.
He increased his speed, and pushed forward, to see how she handled the pressure. The correct
play was to fall back, defend, wait for an opening. Even if she was battle tested, he knew he was the superior
fencer.
She stepped forward, exactly like she wasn't supposed to. Oh, what would the masters say?
She'd angled her sabre to deflect him, leaving both blades pressed to their side. He hadn't expected
her speed.
The masters would tell you that he had the advantage now, that his blade was positioned for a
clean strike, and she had left herself open. That emotion crossed his face again. But this time, it was her
fist that banished it.
The thing about master fencers, is they never teach you how to punch someone in the face. Or how to respond
when you get punched in the face.
They couldn't teach you the realities of war, not in their sleek
uniforms, and ceremonial garments. She'd learnt that a steel plated fist could be as deadly as any blade.
Gaveston was tough, obviously, because he'd just stumbled back, nose clearly broken. Most people would be
cradled on the floor, hugging their knees after such a blow.
The armor clad princess raised her sabre, and
pressed it delicately against his chest.
"Gaveston." His name brought him back to reality, and he
stared at the imposing princess before him. "Drop your sword." He glanced at the blade, hanging by
his side, as if he was seeing it for the first time.
It clattered against the stones.
She angled her
head towards the Queens guard, still standing in shock.
"Find my mother a physician." The guard
stared at her, not comprehending. "That is an order from your lord and princess!"
The command
shattered whatever resistance was left of the guard, and two set about helping the queen, while the others
left in search of the royal physician.
Princess Avely turned to her knights, and sheathed her sabre. "Find the imposter. She looks remarkably like me, at least in the face. But I somehow doubt she'll wear a suit of armor."
Day turned into night, and Gaveston slumped on the bench, hand resting at his empty side. How long had it
been since he was without a blade? His brother's wedding, perhaps?
The Princess entered the guest
chambers they had imprisoned him in, accompanied by a mixture of knights that hadn't left her side
earlier, and the queens guard that had been escorting them all the way from his home.
"Hello sword
brain." He cringed at her tone, memories flooding him of a sarcastic, rebellious little girl. No wonder
he hadn't recognized the princess that had appeared on his doorstep.
"Princess." He muttered,
holding his aching head.
"I'm sorry about the ..." she gestured to her own nose, swirling a
long finger around in circles.
He sighed, nodding slowly. "Well, I am sorry about ... About whatever
this was."
"Gaveston. I need you to tell me everything you can about her. My mother is still
beside herself, and I imagine she won't be much help even when she's feeling herself
again."
And so he told her everything he knew, which was shockingly little, he realized. The woman had
managed to trick the queen, and then relied entirely on her to pass as the princess.
Days passed while they searched the castle grounds, but the imposter was nowhere to be found. Despite the
simplicity of the ruse, she was obviously a talented trickster to pull it off.
The queen refused to address
the incident at all, and the princess knew it was a desperate attempt to save face.
The people rallied
around their princess, a newfound respect for the great warrior.
Gaveston bode her farewell. Any pretense
of marriage was obviously scuttled, but he extended an invitation to the spring festival in his home.
She
was clearly calling the shots around here now, and he was already trying to mend the bridge he had unwittingly
set fire to.
The journey was short, but lonely. His sword was back in it's place now, but he still felt naked,
somehow. A consequence of being taken by a confidence trickster, he supposed.
His servants beamed at him,
as he entered the estate, but he waved them off, too overwhelmed to deal with even well meaning attention
now.
Until some idle words from the butler caught his attention.
"What did you just say?" A
deathly silence enveloped the room. His hand clamped to the hilt of his sword.
"Your fiancé, my Lord
Gaveston. She awaits you in the guest quarters." He pushed them out of the way, speeding to the room.
But of course, it wasn't just empty. She'd taken everything silver as well.
The cage was very nice. It stretched as far as the eye could see, cresting hills, and rolling down streams
of
crystal water. The cage floor was made of earth, and it's walls were delightful rivers.
In the middle
of the cage, at the end of a paved stone street, stood the lord's country villa. Carved from sparkling
marble, and adorned in bronze fittings - it was certainly fit for a nobleman.
But Sebastien could not
care
less about the beauty of the cage. His tanned skin had only been harmed in the usual childhood scraps. His
short hair had never been pulled, and his hands had no callouses.
He wriggled, trying to make himself
comfortable. The clothes they gave him didn't fit like his clothes. Didn't feel like his clothes.
They
were nice, and fancy, but loose, made for a larger boy.
He was twelve years old, and had never worn
clothes
made for someone else. He thought he could never get used to such an uncomfortable thing.
There were guards, and they wore shiny armor, draped in black and green. They held large spears with
various
sharp ends and points. They weren't mean, but they weren't nice either.
Bolo, the servant, was
the
only nice person in the cage. He prepared the meals, and cleaned, and he could get you things, if you asked
and were nice.
Bolo also took care of Sebastien's best and only friend in the cage. Penelope was a
big
ball of fluff and cuddles. When she wasn't running, jumping, or playing, she was sleeping.
Sebastien
never had a pet, and Penelope wasn't his dog anyway. But he loved her all the same. From when the sun
rose, and Bolo woke Sebastien, Penelope was by his side.
They started the day with breakfast, plates of
fresh bread, and sweet fruits, dripping with juices. Sebastien didn't know the names of all the fruits,
but he loved them all the same.
If he ever got home, he'd make sure to ask his parents for some. It
was
so different to home, where breakfast was salted meats, and pickled vegetables, and sweet
pastries.
Sebastien wanted desperately to escape the cage, and find his way home. Even if he never got to
see Penelope, or Bolo again.
He dreamed at night, of his sisters, and his brothers, and his parents. Of
the
red and blue banners hanging from the buildings.
After breakfast, he played with Penelope. He threw sticks, and then he would chase her, when she refused to
give them back.
Her fur was soft, and he thought this is what the gods must feel, when they made the
clouds. His fingers ran through tufts of white fluff, but in his mind, he was Zeus, pulling, pushing,
shaping
the skies.
Something rough and wet moved over his face, and he shrieked. "Penelope, stop!" But
she refused. How did mother and father make people stop doing things they didn't like? People always did
whatever mother and father wanted.
But, when he asked Penelope to do something, she just, wouldn't.
It
was the strangest thing. Bolo, and the guards, were all the same. They didn't care that Sebastien was a
prince.
"Not my prince." They would say, and then they would tell Sebastien what to do! Well,
he
was no stranger to being told what to do. Mother and father did that often enough.
Dinner was usually a different story. Long strands of thin, wet things sat on his plate, a yellow color,
unlike any food he would eat at home, and covered with meat-sauce piled up high. What did they do to turn
meat
into this stuff?
At dinner time, Bolo let Sebastien feed Penelope. "It's important, that she
likes
you. She's here to protect you." Bolo glanced at a guard, wandering past the dinner table. His eyes
returned to Sebastien.
"If you can't find me, or you can't find any guards. Just stick close
to Penelope. She will protect you." Sebastien stared back at Bolo. He kind of looked the same way
Sebastien's parents had looked, when they had left for the war.
Bolo had cooked something different
today. Something familiar. Sebastien stared in wonder, at the sight he had been deprived of for
months.
Gone were the gross, wet long strands of something, replaced with the steaming, salted bread he
knew and loved. And the slick, mystery meat-sauce was gone too. A delicate, recognizable hunk of roast meat
sat next to his bread.
It was the first taste of home in a very long time. Sebastien wanted to ask Bolo
why
and when he had learned to cook this, and more importantly, why he was only doing it now.
But he still
had
that look on his face, and it stopped Sebastien from asking him anything at all.
Sebastien awoke to a something rough and wet sliding over his cheek. Penelope. He sat upright, and sunlight
beamed into his eyes. He threw up a hand to shield himself.
"Bolo?" He tried to get out of bed,
but Penelope was on top of him, her tail smacking his chest, and she was only off of him enough that he
could
start getting up, before she came back around, clambering over him.
"Agroooooo". Penelope
complained, while Sebastien giggled.
Penelope followed hot on his heels, while he stumbled after an armored guard. He wasn't sure how he
should address the woman, so he did what his parents had taught him. Be respectful.
"Excuse me,
sir." The guard continued on, ignoring him. She was moving so fast, despite only walking, so he ran at
her, and Penelope growled. The guard spun around, hand on the hilt of her sword.
"Excuse me sir.
Have
you seen Bolo?". She was confused, looking between the boy and his dog. She bowed her head. "My
lord, Bolo had some business. There will be someone else to cook, if you head on to the kitchen."
He
stared at her in shock. No one had ever called him My lord before.
There were more guards then he could ever remember seeing in the cage, and Penelope didn't like it. She
grumbled and growled, and she almost barked at one. Sebastien had never seen her like this.
Bolo had
never
told him what to do if she misbehaved. Sebastien tried to think, what would his parents do here? But they
weren't the type for pets. The tired looking stranger passed him a bowl of sliced fruit.
He was
certainly no Bolo in the kitchen.
He tried to play with Penelope, but she was distracted by every guard that walked past, and eventually
Sebastien just took her back to his room.
And he did the same thing he did, any time he was worried. He
wrote his parents a letter.
The letters had been gathering lately. Bolo had taken some in the past,
promising him they would be delivered to his parents. But he had never received a reply.
And now Bolo
wasn't even here, so he had no one to ask about delivering a letter.
It had been days since Bolo's disappearance, and the number of guards in the cage had increased.
They'd started building things, replacing the gardens with large wooden platforms, and big posts
stretching up into the sky.
The new guards would run around the grounds in laps, and Sebastien watched
them
from his room. It was all very strange.
Penelope didn't like the new guards at all, and they
didn't
seem to care about him or Penelope, which was just as confusing.
Bolo's replacement, who had never
given Sebastien a name, came to fetch him, surprised that he was already awake.
"My lord, it is time
for you to leave this place. I'll be taking you somewhere safe." The strange man looked
worried.
"Are you taking me back to my parents now? They told me, they would take me back to my
parents, but they haven't." The strange man froze, the worry on his face turning to something else.
The strange man walked Sebastien and Penelope past dozens of guards, all busy with their work, constructing
their strange wooden contraptions.
Other guards were running along wooden beams, climbing over wooden
platforms, and doing all sort of fun things.
Penelope grumbled again, her tail desperately trying to
knock
Sebastien off his feet. She wanted to play. Sebastien did too. But he knew that these guards weren't
just
playing, even if it looked like it.
The strange man took Sebastien to a carriage, and ushered him inside.
The driver was already seated up front, and two guards pushed into the back with Sebastien.
The carriage
took off, and one of the guards started scratching Penelope behind her ear. Sebastien had never seen a guard
so much as look at Penelope.
"My lord, could you stand please?" The guard spoke, but it was Bolo's voice coming from the
green and black armor. The two guards helped him to his feet, while the carriage bounced over the stone
road.
"Bo-" Sebastien started, and received a hand over his mouth. "Shush now, you have to
hide." The other guard lifted the seat that Sebastien had been sitting on, and saw an empty
space.
Too
small for an adult, but maybe just perfect for him.
Sebastien laid down in the space, and someone put the
seat back in it's place, covering him in darkness.
His new cage was terrifying. It was dark, and rough. He slid around, while the carriage sped over bumps and
through him into the air. Splinters tore at his hands, and he slammed into the walls.
He cried, but no
one
heard. Or cared. No one licked his face, or barked a happy bark, or cuddled into him with their soft white
fur. They'd been right. Their were cages much worse then the one they'd forced him into.
And he
had
no idea where this one was being taken.
The cage rocked, and someone outside was yelling.
Sebastien bounced, and slammed into the wall.
Everything hurt. His arms, and his head. His legs, and his back. His throat burned, and he curled, pressing his face against his damp coat.
The door to his cage flew open, and something grabbed him, ripping him back into the world.
He tried to scream, but he couldn't breath. He sucked in a desperate gasp, as the guard hauled him over
a
shoulder, and leapt from the carriage. He couldn't see, the light overwhelmed him, stunned him.
He
squirmed his eyes closed, and heard Bolo's voice, but he didn't understand the word.
"Fuck!"
He landed on the ground, and everything hurt, so so bad. He couldn't open his eyes,
even if he wanted to.
Except something big was on top of Sebastien, growling.
His eyes took in the
soft
white fur, and for a brief second, he could ignore the pain. Penelope had been standing over him, protecting
him from something. But now she was moving.
He turned his head following her movements. Bolo had drawn a
sword, and was charging a soldier covered in blood. Penelope charged their enemy, and sunk her teeth into a
leg.
Bolo struck, and Sebastien clambered to his feet. He limped, sobbing towards the only kindness
he'd been offered in months.
Bolo laid a hand on Sebastien's back, while Penelope ambled in front of them, red staining her mouth.
Like she'd gotten into the roast meat again.
Sebastien was so tired, so hurt, but he kept on
forwards,
with an occasional press on his back. Around them, they could hear the sounds of fighting.
Penelope growled.
In front of them, a large group of guards, all dressed in green and black were running. Behind them, rode a few knights on horses, dressed in blue and red.
Sebastien stopped, and Bolo said another word he didn't recognize. Somehow, the few knights were
chasing
down the larger group, cutting them down mercilessly.
The horsemen dressed in blue and red. Sebastien
looked at Bolo. "Are they my parents soldiers?" he tried to say, but his voice rasped, and his
throat burned.
Bolo grabbed him, hoisted him up on his shoulder again, and took off for some trees. They
were so far away though, and the knights were coming.
They'd been spotted, and the knights cared more
about them over fighting some soldiers.
Bolo turned, as the knights approached, and placed Sebastien on
the
ground. He drew his sword, pressed the blade against Sebastien's throat.
The knights slowed, and
Sebastien tried to speak, but he had no voice left to offer.
Penelope growled.
They faced each other, seconds turned into minutes. Behind the knights, the soldiers rallied. No longer
pursued, they caught their breath, and came towards them.
The lead knight said something to his
companions,
and they charged back towards the throng of green and black.
The lone knight kicked his horse, and charged at Bolo.
Penelope attacked.
The knight fell from his horse, and it took off sideways. Bolo charged toward the fallen knight, leaving Sebastien alone, again.
Together, Bolo and Penelope fought the knight, while Sebastien crept closer.
Bolo's sword flashed, swinging, clanging, wildly flying towards, and away, and in every direction. The
knight was careful. He held a shield in his left hand, keeping Penelope back.
His sword redirected Bolo
expertly, but he wasn't returning the attacks.
Sebastien crept closer.
Penelope circled around, and latched on to the knight's arm. Bolo yelled, leaping forward, sinking his sword into the knight's shoulder.
Sebastien crept closer.
The knight hadn't tried to deflect him this time. Instead, he'd struck, as Bolo leapt forward. Bolo
stood, blade stuck in his chest. The knight half freed it, but Penelope took him to the ground.
Bolo
staggered backwards, and went to the ground as well.
Sebastien crept closer.
Penelope growled.
The knight struggled, trying to get up on his feet, but he had to stop the beast getting a hold of anything vital. She would release his arm, if she could have his neck.
Sebastien crept closer.
Penelope growled.
He didn't know what he was going to do with it, but he needed that sword. Sebastien lifted it, from the body he'd only known as Bolo.
Sebastien crept closer.
Penelope growled.
"Penelope, stop!" It wasn't as loud as he wanted, but he'd made a sound. Tears streamed down his face, and he couldn't avoid the taste of salt.
"I said stop!"
Sebastien crept closer.
Penelope growled.
The knight gasped. Blood covered his armor, staining the blue. It was all so dark now. If Sebastien hadn't seen it pristine, he wouldn't have recognized it.
"Stop!"
Penelope yelped. Her feet stained brown, her coat red. She released the knight.
She growled.
"Stop! Just stop! Bad dog! Bad Penelope!"
The knight startled. Penelope pounced. The sword sliced.
Penelope lay on the ground, red and
alone.
The
knight whistled, and his horse returned.
Sebastien crept closer.
Penelope was silent.
The knight said something, but Sebastien wasn't listening. Strong arms grabbed him, lifting him up onto the horse.
And then they started.
Towards a sea of men, draped in red and blue.