by N.D. Bailey
Riding into the walled city of Gadilrod, they found the people friendly; some nodded their heads at them as they rode down the stone road. Understandably, some looked at them with suspicion at the number of riders in their group, coupled with their motley overall appearance. The very presence of giants among them caused uneasiness for some, while the mangy-looking Vikings provoked curiosity and even some suspicions. Others suspected such a diverse crew could only be up to no good.
The riders strolled down the streets and stopped in front of the first promising water-hole they found for a bite to eat and to escape the rain for a time. The sign hanging outside the first pub read simply, “Wesley’s Pub.”
As they entered, people stared at them, curious about what such an assortment of characters was doing in their city. The riders pushed a couple of tables together in the back and squeezed in. Gilgore hunkered down and managed to get through the double door but the floor was the only thing large enough to hold him; so he waited outside. The life of a giant was always difficult, outside of their city where everything is constructed to fit their big body frames. He had learned to cope but didn’t care much for life outside his city walls where everything only fit normal size people.
After placing their orders, talk was incidental among the riders. Skeener nursed his whiskey under the watchful eye of Windsor. From the other side of the pub, an older gentleman, partially bald, with gray hair and a wooden leg, and a young boy at his side stared at them. Finally, the man rose and walked toward them. As he stumped over to the table, he squint his eyes at Windsor. “Windsor! I thought that was you! I just needed to get a little closer to make sure. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be!”
“Fletcher?” Windsor stood and shook the man’s hand. “I haven’t seen you in so long! I am sure you remembah Gilmanza and Vandorf. I was wondahing why you were staring so hard at me. I thought your eyes were going to bug out of your head!”
Looking closer at the assembled riders, the man exclaimed, “Well, slap a dragon silly! My eyes have gotten so bad I didn’t recognize you two. Good to see ya!” He turned back to the elderly wizard. “Windsor, you haven’t changed a bit!”
“Well, you can only get so wrinkled and ugly!”
“Good to know there’s really a limit, I suppose,” Fletcher said, innocently. Windsor narrowed his eyes, not comforted by his words at all.
Fletcher looked Ormandel over. “Ya look like someone I know.”
“That’s because you do,” Windsor said. “That’s Ormandel!”
“Ormandel? I thought you were dead,”
“So did everyone else,” the knight replied. “Personally, though, I’m glad I knew nothing about it. They tell me that they had me a funeral.”
“Well, sorry to say, friend, but I missed that one.”
“That’s okay, I missed it too,” Ormandel said, roaring with laughter. “Yeah, it’s a real sobering thing to stare at your own tombstone.”
Now seeing the little boy pulling on the man’s shirt, Nadora asked about the boy. “Who is this little man you have with you?”
“This is my grandson, Tazer,” Fletcher answered.
Now having his grandfather’s attention, Tazer had a question of his own to ask. “Is this the wizard you tell me stories about, Grandpa?”
“Yes, as a mattah of fact it is.”
“You tell him stories about me?” asked Windsor.
“Yes, yes. I tell him about our many yeahs we fought togethah and about your powah of wizardry and the many things you did,” Fletcher replied. “My, that has been such a long time ago. I can hardly remembah much—but I tell him what I can remembah.”
“Grandpa,” said little Tazer, “is he really the oldest man alive? He looks really old but is he the OLDEST?”
Laughter broke out around the table, and even Windsor laughed.
“Yes, well, I haven’t always been this old,” he explained to the boy. “He tells the truth, I am the oldest man alive. I am the only one left who still remembahs when we were all immortal!”
“You’re amazing,” Tazer said, excitement in his voice.
“I might have… maybe embellished the stories a bit,” Fletcher admitted.
Windsor smiled. He was use to that.
“Yes, we were actually fairly young back then,” Vandorf said, remembering days gone by.
“Speak for yourself.” Windsor said. “It’s been a many days gone by since I was young.”
“I’m hearing ya, mate!” Gilmanza agreed.
“Yeah, that was the good old days,” Fletcher said. “So what brings you and this group of ridahs this way?”
“Oh, we’re just goin’ on a ride,” Windsor answered, almost too quickly. “You know, gettin’ togethah with old friends.”
“Gettin’ togethah with friends? Now you know I’m not that naive, Windsor. I know you’re on a mission of some sort. Come on, tell me.” Fletcher leaned forward, conspiratorially.
“Well, we’re just scoutin’ out someone for the king,” Windsor explained, still trying not to disclose too much information. “It’s nothin’ all that important, we just had extra people wanting to ride, that’s all.”
“Ahh, I know there’s more to it than that,” Fletcher persisted. Leaning closer, he whispered, “I can feel it. I can feel in my bones that somethin’ is going down. So the othah night I went out roamin’. The moon was full, castin’ light so I could see. I saw them, Ridahs of Quadar, out in a large number. I was on foot so I hid behind the trees. I even saw a ridah bearin’ the Sword of Dahvan, waving it in the air, celebrating its powah.
“I know I can’t ride again. My days have come and gone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still swift as a lion with my sword, but…” He paused for a moment, then continued, “I’m not so swift with this wooden leg, you know!” It was clear he was longing for the return of the days gone by, the days of his youthfulness and vibrant strength, now no more than a distant memory, fading away into oblivion.
“I’m so sorry about your leg, friend,” Windsor offered. “Ya saved my life that day.” He looked at the young grandson. “Your grandfathah is a hero. He tells you stories about me, but you should heahr the stories about him. He saved my life; that’s how he lost his leg.”
“Really?” The boy was eager to hear this story. “Grandpa, why haven’t you evah told me about that?”
“I don’t like to talk about that,” Fletcher said, deflecting the question. “You and Gilmanza then pulled me out of the battle and saved me,” he injected, turning toward both of them.
“You wouldn’t have lost your leg,” Windsor pointed out, “had you not run across into the thick of the battle to save my hide!”
“That was a difficult battle that day, indeed,” Gilmanza said, “but we won it.”
“Fletcher, why don’t you stay a while and eat with us?” Windsor invited.
“Oh, I suppose I need to get goin’. Wouldn’t want to impose.” Deep down he wanted to pull up a chair and stay a while.
“Ya don’t have anywhere you need to be, old man,” Vandorf said. “Sit with us.”
Laughing, Fletcher agreed. Those riders who did not previously know him got acquainted, while the others got caught up with their old friend as they ate and reminisced about bygone days. Occasionally, Fletcher would look across the table at Amase, finding his eyes almost impossible to ignore. But Amase remained quiet as usual, sometimes even seeming a bit shy around strangers. He found Monguard to be a peculiar character too with his jiggy head, but he didn’t call attention to it.
After some time wandering through the past, it was Vandorf who brought the discussion back to the present. “So you say you saw this ridah bearin’ the sword?” he asked. “What did he look like?”
“It was too dark to tell.” Fletcher took a sip of his steaming coffee. “Plus, he had on the black-hooded robe. But I know he had the Sword of Dahvan. Its ruby stones danced in the moonlight, and the dark
ridahs were gathahed all around him.”
They discussed this for a little longer, before Windsor changed the subject, lest it veer too closely to the actual purpose of their mission.
The riders spent the rest of the meal discussing what they were all doing now with their lives, leaving out only the current ride itself. As they picked up their stuff and got ready to leave, Windsor cautioned his old friend, “Don’t mention to anyone what you saw the othah night. Ya know too well the chaos it creates.”
“Once in The Circle, always in The Circle,” Fletcher said with a broad smile. In years past, when they had ridden in such a group some referred to themselves as The Circle, often with nothing more than a general reference being somewhat lighthearted about it, others assuming that the events of prophecy were upon them, even when in fact they were not.
As they parted, Fletcher’s grandson tugged on Windsor’s jacket, “Mr. Wizard, can I touch your staff?”
“My staff?” Windsor searching for words. “Certainly, but my staff is just going to feel like any othah piece of wood.”
The child touched the wood staff, seemingly disappointed that the wizard was right. “Can I shake your hand?” the child asked.
“Certainly,” Windsor said, reached out his hand to shake the boy’s hand. “But it’s your grandfathah’s hand you want to be shakin’,” Windsor said.
“Well,” said the boy, “I nevah met a real wizard before. Or the oldest man alive!” The riders laughed heartily again. The boy seemed more impressed with his age than with his position as a wizard.
Fletcher’s acquaintance with Windsor and the riders set the minds’ of the people in the pub at ease. As they left the pub, people seemed more friendly, smiling and nodding their heads politely toward them. As they walked through the door of the pub, a friendly gentleman greeted them. Suddenly, he noticed Fletcher in the midst of the motley crew. “Fletcher,” he cried out, “how are ya? Are these some friends of yours?”
Shaking his hand and patting him on the back, Fletcher greeted his friend and introduced him to the Circle of Riders, “This is my friend, Dorso. He’s a worker of leather. Owns a business in town. If you need anything—bridles, saddles, or just a belt—he can set you up!” The riders greeted him and chatted for a few moments before Dorso went inside the pub.
Standing on the covered porch outside the pub, Fletcher invited some of them to stay at his house, not having enough room for all of the riders in the inn. After finding his house to be not far from the pub, the group agreed that Windsor, Gilmanza, Vandorf, Ormandel, Binko and Buldar would stay at his house , Gilgore in his barn, while the remainder would stay at Wesley’s Inn adjoining the pub. Anxious to get cleaned up, the riders rode to their places of rest for the night. Vandorf was particularly anxious to clean himself as well as his gear, always compulsive about cleanliness and order.
The next day, those sleeping at the inn rested most of the day, only going out to the adjoining pub for food. The people there were friendly and the riders enjoyed socializing with them and playing darts. Fletcher told his friends at the pub stories of the days he had fought alongside the likes of Windsor, Gilmanza, Vandorf, and Ormandel, often embellishing the stories a little bit. The days went by, as the riders rested and waited for the rain to let up so they could resume their journey.
