A Fallen Knight...

Fog curls out from beneath the gnarled tree roots and gently caresses the ground as it spreads forward to embrace the earth. Broken rays of sunlight trickle down through the cluttered branches to sparkle delicately in the gray cloud covering the ground. For a brief moment it seems as if all of the world has fallen into an enchanted slumber.  Then hoarse shout rises distantly from within the thicket of trees and is soon joined by a great number of screams. Birds burst dramatically into the air to blend their shrieking calls with the deathly din they are eagerly escaping. Wearily, a battered face turns towards the outburst with calculating eyes; wiping glistening beads of sweat from his face, Sir Leon motions to a waiting squire who refills his water-skin as the Knight strains to make out the sounds of battle.

“It’s the Seymour’s yellow coated brigands again, I reckon” a nearby soldier helpfully interjects to break the quiet reflection. The Knight nods as he returns “But whose men are they butchering now?” which causes everyone to fall silent again. The sounds of battle drift from the distant conflict for a few more minutes before slowly fading away into an eerie calm. Tilting his head back, Sir Leon looks up at the makeshift watch tower his men had completed just the previous night. A slight movement on the wooden construction and then a head peers over and makes eye contact with the Knight. “Can’t see diddly, Sir. No idea where they are, or how many there are.”

A muffled groan might have been heard as the Knight looks around at his remaining men. Keeping an outward appearance of calm, he nods solidly to those who manage to meet his eyes though he is inwardly raging. Curse whatever bloody fools light the entire grasslands on fire, he mentally shouts to himself. A pox and a curse and all of the boils of Satan’s torment burn their souls for eternity! We might have stood a chance until a prairie fire sets a beacon out to the whole world and conveniently blocks any line of sight or ability to watch or scout for movement. 17 ambushes in just two weeks, who ever heard of a Knight being caught unaware that often? A few nervous glances from his squires makes Sir Leon realize that his face was betraying his inner turmoil again, which he resolves by stiffly turning and making another round of their precarious encampment. Occupying himself by taking a quick internal roll call, the Knight is almost crushed by the realization he has only twelve men left. Twelve men out of a fierce seventy man regiment so widely respected that many fights stopped simply because they arrived.

The moment the fire became apparent, every House around rushed to wipe the other off the planet under the cover of the ash darkened skies. Finding soldiers in yellow and green was not surprising, as the Seymour and Gainesford Houses had already been encroaching on Dalison land. But mixed in with those bodies, not only had he found the reddish brown of his own Dalison House but also the light cyan of the Rodhale, and also the deeper red of House Andrews. Probably all Houses have a quick tongued gent on hand with the King to explain the “mistaken identity” or “accidental death” for any conflict that could actually be witnessed and proven in the King’s court. And nobody had heard word of that minor House that was poking around before the fire started. So much for their vaunted help that they offered, he snorts to himself, some rumors even have them as the reason that the fire started. I wish I knew what they really wanted and why they decided to wipe the Dalison House off the world.

Sudden alarm breaks into his thought process and he stiffens in shock as his mind frantically does a double take. “Alarm!” he barely manages to get out before the trees around him erupt into a flurry of weapons swinging at his face. I walked right past that guy and never realized he was just standing there in the shadows. Time has frozen for the briefest of moments as he rebels against accepting the sight in front of him. Not the Black! They never surround or take prisoners, just kill us all with no warning or reasoning. They aren’t from here, some say they are from Hell. Why must it be them, why can’t it be a House?

All these thoughts flit through Leon’s brain in a lightning fast moment before combat shuts down any further extraneous thoughts. Quickly twisting with the grace of years of practice, Leon flips his shield sideways and manages a quick bump against an incoming sword. Rotating his head in an awkward angle, he is barely able to catch a second thrust against the strong crest of his helm. Using the momentum of his twist, his right arm strains muscles in a painful movement but succeeds in clearing his sword from his scabbard and sending a darting thrust towards the black armored opponent.  Screams and shouts fill the air but sound seems compressed to the Knight as he focuses on pure survival.

A single lasting second hangs in time before the two blackened blades flicker frighteningly quick towards Leon. An efficient sidestep puts his shield once more right in the perfect path to blunt a sword strike, but this time his attempt to dodge is not quick enough and the second sword catches on his shoulder plates. Metal shrieks as a few chains snap beneath the weight of the blow and blood vessels burst in protest, however his skin does not break and the fight must continue. Moving into his blow, the Knight flings a quick side-hand slash that is easily dodged by his nimble opponent. Hard earned experience has prepared Leon for his tactic however and he manages to shuffle forward just a bit during the exchange.

The roar of blood pounds a drastic beat in his ears, drowning out the sounds of his men behind him. Knowing that they fought the black devils, Leon lets slip a brief snarl of despair and grief for his loyal men dying at this moment. Even a brief slip is too much against such spirited foes and a dark blade connects solidly against the side of his helmet and forces his eyes shut against the ringing. Dalison Knights are respected throughout the entire Kingdom for their training and old legends, and this one refuses to go down so easily. Gritting against the pain, the blind man relies entirely on instinct born of training and experience. Unconventionally swinging his sword low towards the dirt, he waits a heady and full microsecond before flicking his wrist upward with all of the strength that he has left in his battered body.

Bitter raging lust courses through his veins as the impact of steel upon heavy flash ripples through his muscles. A killing blow, he knows even though his eyes refuse to open. Elation and horror melt together inside his emotions as sweet droplets of blood course down his face. In his enlightened sense, Leon feels the presence of several bodies closing on his position. A snarl of pure determination rips through clenched teeth as he whirls and spins into the mass of bodies approaching him. Laughing the last laugh of a doomed man, he revels in the screams and grunts as his shield and blade clash and smash into his enemies. Unfeeling, unaware, he ignores everything around him and surrounds to the rage and anger and bliss of knowing there are no more cares.

A bright light seems to dance in his mind, guiding him through each step of this delicate and maddening dance. Oh Lord of Creation, I entrust myself to You. Take my last confession, feel my sins and absolve me. Let me dance with You this night and sup from Your cup. I dedicate this glorious moment to You, let my name live on in glory forever. And as this last prayer bubbles out of lips brimming with blood, his body finally loses its battle. With a slow and sweeping spin, he slowly buckles to his knees and then begins a glacial fall to the ground. One last breath breaks free of collapsing lungs and his eyes finally work again, giving him one last glance of his final battlefield.

As the world spins in on itself, his mind is already fleeing but has time to mark the positions of two black suits of armor crumpled at one corner of the field and another one a few feet down. From those bodies lead a set of bloody footprints in an erratic pattern through a broken pile of brown armored bodies. The last sight seared into the Knight’s eyes are the footprints ending directly beneath him.