“These ruins used to be a fort. Where we are now was the main watch tower,” Tristan speaks, sounding more like a historian than a warrior or bodyguard.
He starts to scavenge around, trying to find any dead branches and plants. Cale decides to help while Morion and Amy sit down, stretching their legs. With armfuls of dead vegetation, Tristan leads Cale to the center of their makeshift camp and they throw the tinder down. Tristan then goes back to scavenging around the camp, finding rocks and larger hunks of dead tree. With them, he starts a good sized fire. Morion remembers the pack of fruits and retrieves them, passing a few out among the bards.
Tristan stands at the edge of the camp, watching the sun finally finish its fall behind the trees. Morion does not bother offering any of the fruit to him, contempt still in her heart from his words earlier. He finally sits with a sigh, his back to them as normal. He unsheathes his sword and takes a whetstone to it - the sound of the stone on the sword’s blade echoing off of the few still-standing walls.
None of the company really has the will yet to speak about anything.
~-~~-~
The moon rises and reaches the pinnacle of its arc. Morion wakes, aware that she had dozed off. The fire has lowered, but still burns. The bards lay on the ground close to the fire, sleeping closely. She does not find Tristan, though his horse and bags are still where they were earlier. She stands up, dusts herself off and takes to exploring the ruins.
The night is still and soundless, save for an odd sound; one Morion does not recognize at first. She follows the sound, coming to a staircase in the side of a large mound. Morion climbs the stairs, there finding Tristan sitting on the edge of what had once been a balcony, looking out over the former fort. The sound was him sharpening a small dagger.
“You sleep much too heavily for someone whose life is in danger,” he says grimly.
Morion looks closer at the dagger. It is hers. She reaches down to her waist and finds the sheathe empty, validating her suspicions.
“How dare you steal from me! Do you make it a habit to violate women while they sleep!?” she counters angrily.
“You would sling accusations like that to one who merely tries to keep you safe?” asks Tristan as he gives the dagger a final stroke of the whetstone, then wipes the blade with his cloak. He hands the dagger to her, hilt first. “This weapon is already too small to be of much use, but being as dull as it was would have only given you a false sense of security. At least now it will serve its purpose to some extent.”
Morion’s eyes soften, shamed by her words. She takes the dagger back, sheathing it. Tristan looks upon the whetstone with an expression of gratitude and pockets it. Morion sits down next to him, trying to find words for apology. Before she can say anything, Tristan abruptly says one word: “Alastor.”
“Excuse me?” she asks, visibly confused.
“My name, my real name that is, is Alastor.”
“Oh. It is nice to finally meet you, Alastor.”
Morion smiles, but Tristan, that is Alastor, remains grim as ever.
“Unless my memory is seriously failing me, I do believe I owe you a story about your father and I,” Alastor says. “Now seems to be as good a time as any, unless you have any objections?”
“Not at all. I would love to hear what you have to say.”
“I will tell you of the last time we traveled together. It should add some context to the current events. Your father had recently been contacted by an old ally to the north...”
Chapter Five
The Last Ride of Alastor and Gawain
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Halvard, one year ago.
It is not yet dawn. Alastor awaits outside the Halvard city gates mounted upon a powerful black stallion. The animal is more like a draft horse, being nearly twice the size of the average equine. Its size is not without purpose - snow has begun to fall lightly and the saddle bags that it carries are near bursting, full of various supplies. Alastor leans forward in the saddle impatiently. The horse too is tired of waiting and stamps its hooves with a shake of its mane.
Before too much longer, a clatter can be heard on the wind, coming closer. The sound is that of hooves trotting upon the stones of Halvard’s main road. Gawain, King of Halvard emerges. He rides a brown horse, of similar stature to that of Alastor’s, which is also under the load of a large burden, though not equal to that of Alastor’s animal for one reason: Gawain and his horse wear light chain mail.
“I hope I have not kept you waiting Alastor.”
“Not long. Only an hour or so.”
“I had hoped to avoid Morion, but she waked earlier than I had expected. She would not allow me leave without seeing me off proper.”
“How quaint,” Alastor smirks.
“When you have children, you will understand.”
Alastor guides his horse, preparing to take the north road. The northern road runs parallel between Halvard and the neighboring forest for many miles before making way into the north forest itself and leaving the kingdom behind.
“Me? With children? Unlikely, Your Highness.”
“You never know,” Gawain replies with a grin.
Alastor and Gawain begin to slowly trot down the north road in silence for a time.
“Your letter did not really explain this matter. Why exactly does Judeheim need an audience with you on such short notice?” Alastor eventually inquires.
“I am not entirely sure. It has been a fairly long while since we have heard from them. They have been busy, we have been busy, but we have been allies since before the days of the Old Kingdom. I assume it is simply to reaffirm our ties or some such triviality.”
Alastor thinks Gawain’s words over a moment.
“Triviality, you say? Good enough. Though, if that is the case, explain why you need me. My particular skills are ill suited for trade agreements or alliance reaffirmations.”
Gawain closes his eyes and hangs his head with a sigh.
“There is no fooling you, is there?”
“You are not a good enough liar. What is wrong?”
“I am haunted by dark dreams, friend.”
“You expect problems in Judeheim?”
“I am not sure. All I do know is that I want to come home to my daughter. With you aiding me, it helps to alleviate any fears I have concerning this trek.”
“Understandable,” Alastor agrees with a nod. “Given that, I would suggest we move as swiftly as possible and void this sluggish pace we are currently on.”
Laughing at the not-so-subtle hint, Gawain whips at the reins, speeding his horse forward and starting a spontaneous race with Alastor.
~-~~-~
Judeheim, far to the northwest, was not so much a proper kingdom but rather a fair sized trade city, in much the same mold as Halvard. It is exclusively populated by a religious sect, and ruled over by the High Council, a group of nine city elders chosen every seven years by the populace itself. Due to their high moral standards, this ruling body has for centuries been free of corruption - which is the primary reason why Judeheim grew from a small settlement into a thriving merchant city, and the central hub of mercantile trade amongst the Old Kingdom. Its rulers were trustworthy, its businesses were trustworthy, and they could smell a poor businessman a mile away.
Judeheim was first officially recognized as a city by Halvard, thus starting their ancient alliance. The religion of Judeheim is relatively simple: they worship a single, unnamed God, whom created a vast number of servants and agents to oversee the well being of the land. This rather simple faith has resulted in many wars with other peoples, cities, kingdoms and even entire nations; all of which ended in victories for Judeheim with not a single spoil of war taken. These victories can be attributed to one singular factor: everyone of the faith, man and woman alike, young and old, were not mere citizens but warrior priests, trained from birth to protect themselves and those unable to defend themselves.
All in all, Judeheim is the finest ally
any kingdom could have.
~-~~-~
Alastor and Gawain ride along the path, racing like old friends. The forest is a blur as they speed through it. The sound of the horses’ galloping thunders through the trees, earth and snow kicked high into the air behind them.
“You spend too much time on that throne of yours, old man!” Alastor shouts with a laugh.
“I did my fair share of adventuring and riding long before you were even born! What I lack in youth, I more than make up for in style and finesse!” Gawain retorts before leaning forward in his saddle and kicking his horse gently on the sides, sending it forward with surge of speed.
Alastor does the same, and the two ride neck and neck. The race continues for only a moment before they see that they are rapidly coming to the crossroad. They bring the animals to a slow stop, not wanting to injure them.
“A tie again Alastor.”
“As always.”
The crossroad was a hub, leading off into three directions - northwest, northeast and south, which is where they just came from. Gawain begins to take the northwest road.
“Where are you going?” Alastor asks.
“Where does it look? This is the road to Judeheim.”
“You were the one talking of ill omens in your dreams. We can take the northeast trail, and then go west once we reach the trade road into the city.”
“But that will more than double the length of the trip and add at least one full day to it.”
“It also offers a much smaller chance of being ambushed.”
Gawain looks from one road to the other, going over the possibilities in his mind.
“I suppose you are correct. If there is anyone waiting for us, they would most likely expect us to take the main road.”
“Besides, Gawain, I know these woods well. The northeast trail has infinitely more defendable positions and places to hide in the event things go awry.”
“Far be it from me to ignore your advice.”
They nod in agreement, veering on to the northeast trail. The speed of their travel lessens dramatically, with the path being barely wide enough to accommodate the two riding side by side. In addition to the meager size of the trail, it is covered in a modest layer of snow, a foot at minimum. Despite slowing them down, the snow is a welcome sight to Gawain, and helps to ease him.
“The snow aids us in one regard, Alastor; it is unbroken and clean, two days old at least with no signs of having been traveled upon.”
“That much is in our favor thus far, Your Highness.”
From then on, they ride in silence, each lost in their own inner machinations. The sun rises slowly, starting its arc high upward into the sky. The further they venture along the path, the more that the snow cover gradually thins until the ground can easily be seen, with only small patches of slush here and there. The ground is wet, but not muddy, and as such, the tracks of animals, small game and birds can readily be seen pressed into it and nothing else.
Some hours pass unnoticed, and soon the sun reaches its peak, signaling midday. Alastor points to a small animal beaten path branching off to the right. They follow this path, coming to a pond which is fed by a diminutive but constant waterfall, that in turn is fed by an unseen river. The pond is surrounded by any number of animals, both large and small. The grass all around is beaten down or stripped away, revealing that the modest basin is most likely one of the few safe watering holes within this portion of the forest. Alastor and Gawain come down from their beasts, moving gently to avoid frightening the forest animals, allowing their own animals to drink and feed at their leisure. The forest animals take interest in the newcomers, but after a moment continue about their routine.
“So, Alastor, have you given any thought to settling down?” Gawain asks, his voice revealing that he genuinely wants to know.
Alastor throws open one of the saddle bags on his animal, taking out some fruit and dried meat. Alastor hands Gawain his portion. As Alastor sits down against a tree he takes a bite of the fruit and looks up at the sky, squinting as the sun comes out from behind a cloud.
“What do you mean?” he asks sarcastically.
“I mean finding a wife. Finally pick one place to have as a home and raise a family.”
Alastor chews slowly as he looks at Gawain.
“No I have not and, in all likelihood, never will, Your Highness.”
Gawain sighs as a father might upon learning his son has chosen a life alternate to one previously hoped for.
“I know that when your father died it put a degree of pressure on you that most men do not have to endure, but you do not have to let the seeking of vengeance keep you from leading a life of your own.”
Alastor swallows and sneers.
“The day of my father’s death sealed my path. I will follow it till the end, even if it leads to my ruin. You know this, Gawain.”
Gawain nods silently. He knows there is no persuading someone who has accepted a bleak fate. The two continue their meal. When finished, Gawain takes a pipe from his saddle bag, fills it and sits down at the foot of a tree opposite Alastor. Just as he is about to strike the tinderbox a flock of birds, which had been singing cheerfully, suddenly flies away without visible cause. The animals grazing and drinking run off as well. Clouds rapidly form and filter out the sunlight.
Then, snow begins to lightly fall.
“We should go now,” Alastor says as he starts to stand.
“Of course. Odd that the clouds would come in so fast.”
“Odd indeed.”
They, without sound and with all haste mount up, returning back to their road. The snowfall is slow but constant. The miles slowly continue passing, the snow becomes heavier, and eventually it takes to falling more like frozen torrential rain. Alastor and Gawain now struggle to see as a heavy fog takes to encasing the forest.
“Alastor, you are an expert on these lands. Is weather such as this normal for the time of year?” Gawain asks, unease clear as a bell in his voice.
“No. This is not normal for this entire region at any time, and especially at the tail end of winter.”
Heedless of this fact, they push onward. The clouds and fog and ice-rain block out the sun completely, bathing the forest in a pale gray light. The ride, while hard, would not have been impossible if it were not for a sudden explosion of wind sweeping down the road from the north, blasting into Alastor and Gawain, who manage to retain their balance and are forced to raise their arms to shield their eyes, the powerful wind pushing the frozen icy rain directly at them. Even so, the duo stays the course.
“If I did not know better, I might think the forest itself does not want us here!” Gawain shouts over the din of the howling wind. Alastor does not answer, his face contorted in worry as he is lost in thought. Gawain takes notice of Alastor’s silence.
“A kingdom for your thoughts, Alastor. Your being speechless is never a good omen.”
Alastor looks at Gawain, eyes dark and distant. Slowly the words come.
“You are not the only one who has haunting dreams, Gawain.”
Gawain finds something in Alastor’s eyes that is foreign, unseen in all the years he has known the man.
Fear.
A sharp and piercing wail explodes from the forest. Alastor and Gawain are forced to cover their ears and, in that briefest of instants, the horses rear up, causing their riders to fall. Before either can right himself, the horses have turned tail and begun galloping back down the road which they came, frightened out of their senses. As the men attempt to stand, the wind reacts accordingly, pounding into them with unyielding force, keeping them earthbound. They dig their boots into the mud, their fingers gripping at the moist earth in an attempt to keep from being blown down the road.
“We mean you no harm!” Alastor yells at the top of his lungs.
“Who are you talking to!?” Gawain yells in return.
As though in response to Alastor, the wind changes; rapidly whipping from left to right, to and fro, violen
tly moving the trees and making it appear like they were alive. The tempest grows ever more and more powerful; ice and rain flying everywhere, ripping at the two men like claws. Another wail bursts from the forest and then, just as sudden as it arose, the wind stops and the sky calms, returning to a gentle snow fall. The two men release the tension in their bodies while they loosen their grip on the earth. With sighs of relief they look at one another, discovering they have fallen on opposite sides of the road.
Gawain is about to question Alastor, but swiftly the younger of the two brings his finger to his lips, signaling for silence. At first Gawain is clueless as to Alastor’s insistence for quiet, but slowly the King becomes aware of what Alastor had already known: the sound of heavy running can be heard from the western woods and coming toward them fast. The King looks to Alastor, who signals that he can hear five distinctly different sets of foot falls before he then motions for Gawain to lay as low as possible to the ground. Still covered in the ice, snow and mud, they blend in with the nature around them.
The running increase in volume and urgency, coupled with shouts voiced by grim sounding men. Alastor and Gawain look up to see what appears to be a little girl - pale skinned, raven haired and wearing a white dress - burst out of the western forest, dashing across the road and entering the eastern woods.
The two travelers push themselves further against the ground just as a small group of men, numbering four total, emerge, following the girl. Once the men have moved out of their field of view, Alastor and Gawain look to one another and with a nod come to the mutual agreement to give chase to the men. Without hesitation or concern, King and warrior pick themselves up from the ground, swiftly following the footprints in the snow. Alastor reaches back with his right hand to unsheathe the claymore on his back, griping it firmly in both hands. Gawain takes the shield from his back, securing it to his left arm, then unsheathes the sword on his belt with his sword hand.
It does not take long for them to find their prey. The four men have cornered the little girl, but she is not alone. She stands within the arms of a woman bearing similar features and wearing the same dress, almost as though she is an older incarnation of the little one. The rough men do not bother taunting the females, raising their weapons to strike them down. When their arms reach their top swing, it is then that Alastor lets loose a deep roar and leaps at the men. They turn just as Alastor cleaves through one of their rank. With their attention fully on this attacker, they fail to notice Gawain as he comes from behind, striking another of the men. The two remaining have no chance, Alastor and Gawain finish them with a single stroke each.
The Black Knight Page 6
