»
Main Forums
»
Passions in Prose
»
A Journey Home
| Passions in Prose |
|
A Journey Home |
|
|
GreyMouser Junior Member
since 2000-10-20
Posts 17 |
The light from the grey overcast autumn afternoon allowed no shadow's cast. A rutted path wound through once lush forest now turned lean with half-leaved trees. Along the path, leading his large grey horse, the worn-looking knight slowly walked. There was no need of haste when unsure of your destination. Many cold nights had been spent before reclining in a bed of brown leaves with a sturdy oak tree headboard. What little silver remained in the cracked leather purse would not be wasted paying an innkeeper's price for a soft warm bed. The many years spent in distant lands had not brought the wealth and riches the crusade's leaders had promised. If long hard journeys and fierce bloody battles were gold then he was rich beyound belief. Now stiffening joints and the ever growing grey in his hair told him it was time to return to a home left in haste long ago. A sudden soft breeze brought along sounds not of the forest. His ears made them to be the shouts and laughter of men engaged in some cruel sport, mixed within, a scream for help, distinctively female. A hop aboard the old charger and a squeeze against it's side brought a swift canter down the curving path. As he rounded a small hillock he quickly discovered the source of the cries. A two-wheeled cart laden with heavy oaken barrels sat stopped in the road. Six, no, eight men of rough appearence surrounded the wagon. Against one side a man, no a boy of about seventeen or so stood, back to wagon, a wooden quarterstaff brandished in defense. Between him and the wagon cowered a young girl that he guessed to be no older than the lad. From their similar features he rekoned them brother and sister. Vastly outnumbering the two, the men were in no hurry, and were laughing as each took turns with feign and parry against the lad with their weapons. There was plenty of time before they took the barrels of potent mead as prize and then the lass. The sudden appearence of a horseman quickly brought a more serious expression to their faces. The knight drew up his horse a short distance from the men. He well knew how to avoid encirclement. He shouted his name and a challenge to whom he thought the leader of the road bandits warning him and his minions to desist and leave lest they meet with foul fate. A few backed slowly in the direction of wooded saftey until the leader, a fierce, dirty man with a ragged scar across one cheek and no left ear, bade them halt. No other soldiers in sight he judged the knight was alone and the odds still in his favor. He did not fancy the loss of the mead and he would have been first on the maid. His silent hand signals started the others in motion. The knight drew blade, he had forwarned his foes as chivalry bade. His sword, though of simple design and leather-wrapped hilt, was of hammer-forged Toledo steel with a razor edge that gleamed even in the subdued light. The knight's first pass through the group took two men down with practiced right-left blade strokes. But as he wheeled the charger, a cloth-yard arrowshaft whistled through the air and pierced the horse's chest. The valiant old charger stumbled and dropped to his knees, he would fight no more. A look of cold fury formed on the knight's face as he jumped free of his mortally wounded equine companion. The archer responsible had little time to gloat. He had forgotten the lad and now paid the price as the butt of the quarterstaff split his skull from behind. Though three of their number now laid quiet on the hard-packed earth, the bandits refused to flee and quickly reformed. One now attacked boy and with a quick blow from an iron-studded cudgel, knocked him senseless. They surrounded the knight and the fighting turned deadly earnest. The knight's longer weapon and chain mail shirt evened the fight considerably as the bandit's blades refused to bite on the small steel links. Soon only the leader stood unsmitten but the exertion had taken its toll on the knight and the sword now felt like lead. The knight threw aside the heavy sword and drew an ivory-handled poniard from his belt. The bandit, a small axe in hand, growled and lunged forward, the two were soon locked in deadly combat. Then suddenly it was over. The only sound breaking the still air was the choking gurgle of the bandit leader as the poniard sank to the hilt in his throat. The knight left the blade were it was and paused for a moment to catch his breath. His face seemed strangely ashen even considering the dimming light. He slowely walked over to the young girl who was ministering aid to her fallen brother. A quick glance assured him that the boy had suffered no great damage. The girl rushed to him and standing on tiptoe kissed his cheek and professing thanks gave him a great hug. It was then she noticed the sticky wetness as her hands came back covered in blood. During the combat, some cruel steel blade had bitten deep into the kinight's side, in the same spot in the mail seam found by Saracen foes twice before. From this third attack upon his scarred body he knew there would be no recovery. As he walked slowly back to his fallen horse, the stumble in his step increased. He laughed softly at the irony. Many years and countless battles for fame and glory in strange and distant lands, he had survived and now on a lonely road, so close to home, he had fallen in battle over a wagonload of mead and a young maid's honor. Reaching the almost lifeless body of his fallen old companion, he slumped down beside him wearily, and in a few short moments both were still. |
||
| © Copyright 2000 GreyMouser - All Rights Reserved | |||
|
Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
There is a good amount of potential here - I was a little disappointed that the moral lesson I was gradually seeing come out was skipped over in the end tho Good intro to prose however. Chris |
||
|
GreyMouser Junior Member
since 2000-10-20
Posts 17 |
Actually Chris I was trying my hand at a Robert E. Howard style of story and really had no particular moral in mind other than a bit of irony. Thanks for the read and reply *S* Mike |
||
|
|
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
|
| All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. | ||
