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.
