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As Ruben moved to take a cutting of the summer blooms, he thought of his son, Hiram. When he returned, he’d have to teach the boy botany. There was so much to teach, and so little time. Of course, the child being only three, it wasn’t yet time. A soft, small sound drew his attention. He turned about several times on the forested trail, squinting into the trees on either side of him. Against his better judgment, he stepped from the road, searching until the sound grew clearer.
It took several minutes, until he came upon a clearing, and the sound that greeted him was the sobbing of a kneeling maiden. She was clutching a bow, and covered in a spattering of blood. Her hair was a bright copper, and her skin appeared to have lost much of its color and luster. She was crying over a woman’s broken body, dressed in what Ruben deduced as the attire of a noble. A darkened crimson path extended through the clearing to the southern tree line, and continued up a hill. As Ruben approached, the maiden stumbled backward, startled at his approach. A bundled cloth was revealed by her movement, and it wriggled and squirmed. After a few moments, he could hear the girl’s voice as a faint murmur. “He’ll find me here. No, no, I can’t let him catch me.” Ruben knelt, “What are you on about?” “The prince has gone mad. He’s killed them all.” He said, “Of Aculas, to the South? Who is this woman?” “His sister, the queen. I was supposed to protect her. I’ve failed.” Ruben wasn’t sure what to say. There was the sound of a horse, ever so gentle on the afternoon air. The maiden startled, and reached to gather the bundle into her arms. She sobbed, pleading, “This child, he must live. He’s the only child of Lord Garran.” “Come then. Let’s get you somewhere safe. What’s this child’s name?” The sound of a blade being drawn seemed to spark something in Ruben, and he turned to see the dark armored horse with its equally adorned rider. Purple spiked armor, and a flowing black cape. This armor had been spoken of in many towns and villages. It marked the rider as none other than Lord Kaizer, the youngest prince of Aculas castle. He wore no helmet, his short black hair offset by an intense, pale face. His sword, equally as storied, was rumored to have been fashioned in one of the eastern provinces, within a mountain that never sleeps. The black rocks of that mountain had somehow been folded into a steel blade, leaving the edges jagged but sharp. It was fabled to always be cold to the touch. Ruben cursed himself for the measly chain shirt as he stared at the dull black sheen of Lord Kaizer’s sword. He stood and stepped between the prince and the maiden, as he drew his own remarkably ordinary blade. Kaizer said, “You wish to seal your fate, traveler? You stand before the King of Aculas castle with your sword brandished. Or, are you as foolish as my brother?” Ruben swallowed the fear that began creeping in with an unnatural chill that began to permeate the sunny clearing. “And you face Ruben, a knight of the great kingdom of Lachsten.” Kaizer said, “There is no name that benefits the deceased.” Ruben planted his feet, and positioned his sword. He watched as Kaizer spurred his horse, racing down the hill with its crimson trail. Ruben felt his stomach drop at the imposing figure of the prince, as it hurtled toward him, cape billowing from the rush of wind. He almost jumped when he heard the twang of the bow. Ruben watched as an arrow sliced through the air. It found its home in the eye of the horse, which tumbled in a thrashing heap of sinewy muscle. Kaizer, however, had leaped from its back, and landed, rolling with a clatter of armor and a great upheaval of earth in front of them. He lunged, thrusting his sword behind Ruben to strike at the maiden. Ruben parried the thrust and returned a thrust of his own. Kaizer swiped the blade with little effort, and moved his head from the path of an arrow. Ruben attempted another swing, and this time Kaizer twisted the swords and pushed, pinning Ruben’s sword into his left shoulder. The chain shirt held, thankfully, but the pain was real enough. Ruben understood now. Something about this situation spoke to him on a primal level. “Run, girl! Take the child North to Lachsten!” She picked up the child and ran toward the road. Ruben hoped that Kaizer would, at the very least, not be able to follow her once she got far enough away. All he could hope for was to stall for a time. Regardless of price, Ruben rested his hopes on the maiden, and the child she protected. He had to slow Kaizer down, if only a little. Kaizer rushed forward, swiping at Ruben’s sword hand. In desperation, Ruben moved forward, catching the King’s blade with his own. He grabbed his enemy’s sword hand, twisted and dropped his weight. This had the desired effect, as they both fell and rolled into the grass around them. Ruben felt several waves of pain through his back, as Kaizer punched with the spiked gauntlet. Ruben rolled, snatching his sword, and jumped to his feet. Every movement was agony, but he steeled himself, because the battle could not be over yet. There hadn’t been enough time. He saw Kaizer still on a knee, glaring at him. He struck toward the King. Kaizer grinned, catching the blade mid-swing. He didn’t seem to mind the cut to the palm. Instead, he shoved his other hand forward, seizing Ruben by the throat. “Here you are, fighting like one of Hildashar’s Blood Knights. Are they not your rivals? I should have known better than to underestimate one trained by Aimon of Lachsten. You’ve got some skill.” Ruben struggled, but he saw white spots and felt the throb of his pulse behind his ears as the King squeezed. Kaizer kicked into Ruben’s knee. If he could have screamed, he would have. What parts of his leg weren’t numbed by the attack felt as if they were on fire. Kaizer punched into Ruben’s gut, the spikes of the gauntlet piercing through the chain, knocking the rest of the air from his lungs. Ruben was tossed to the side, a warm moistness spreading across his torso. Ruben sputtered, choking as he turned to see Kaizer retrieving the jagged black sword from where it sat in the grass. He felt confused as the prince stood there, seeming to stare into his eyes with all the fury of Hell. “I’m impressed, Ruben of Lachsten. You put up a better fight than my brother, vanquisher of the last Oberstruthian warlord Bruich. Ender of the war of Hrotska plain, and eldest son of our father Allende. Pick up your sword then Ruben, knight of Lachsten, and obtain the peace of the grave.” Kaizer waited a few moments, as Ruben tried in vain to draw a deep breath. He broke the silence by placing the tip of the jagged black sword onto Ruben’s chest. “If you would rather die like a coward and peasant,” said Kaizer, an icy fog escaping with his breaths. “You will be left in this field to rot with my dear brother’s wife. I would assume that’s not a fitting end for a warrior of your talent.” Ruben forced himself to move, breathless, snatching at the hilt of his steel salvation. He pushed the blade into the ground, and used it to steady himself enough to stand. He stared into Kaizer’s cold blue eyes. Ruben understood then, why Kaizer had stopped so long. This was entertaining for him. Chasing the girl was pointless, she was going to die anyway. The pallor of her skin, the amount of blood about her. She was likely bleeding from an infected wound, and she was exerting herself. Ruben felt a perverse admiration for this strategy. The child was likely to die not long after the girl. It was a doomed rescue from the beginning. Kaizer was an apex predator, using finesse and strategy as opposed to raw strength; chasing his quarry at a methodical pace, forcing her to die by way of faith and struggle. He had wielded her hope as a more fatal weapon than the evil looking blade clutched in hand. This was the man townsfolk of the southern fields had joked about, referring to him as the prince of crypts, not believing a man of his station could have killed so many men in combat at such a young age. Ruben had also met a few, however, that Kaizer had met on the battlefield. These had returned to their villages and their provinces; and they would tell tales of how he devised the strategies that brought the warlords of Oberstruthe to their knees in the War of Hrotska. They would tell of the man who rode through their town with the severed head of Ynorr, Arch-Mage of the Runes. It was clear to Ruben, staring into the calculating eyes, that these rumors, jokes, and stories held a frightening truth. Kaizer’s black blade flickered a moment, and a biting cold swept up Ruben’s body. Looking down, he could see his legs encased in a thick covering of ice. When he turned his head back, the last thing he saw was piercing blue eyes being eclipsed by the blurring black blade swinging to meet him. The glassy stone-laced steel hit Ruben, the jagged edge biting and tearing. Kaizer withdrew his ice from Ruben, allowing the headless body to fall to the ground. He stared into the trees. The maiden would die on the way to Lachsten. He wondered, however, if someone would happen across the body before the scavenging animals did. If they did, then his nephew would likely survive. Either way, the child was not a threat, and so pursuit was no longer necessary. Aside from the child who would remember nothing of this day, all who could challenge his rule were now dead. That was enough for one day. Once Ruben’s death was discovered, he would be challenged by many foolish knights. Many men would come, thinking that they could dispose who they believed to be a false King. Until the prophecy Ynorr had cursed him with had been fulfilled, he would wait in patience for such victims, the harbinger of death that they would seek. He would tend the crypts, and the grounds of his castle would be littered with the corpses of false bravery. Perhaps that was why Kaizer allowed his nephew’s life to continue. One day, perhaps the boy would learn of his history, and would come with true bravery to find his King. Kaizer imagined watching the last rays of hope leave this world, through the glassing over of his nephew’s eyes. Ynorr’s prophecy was marred by its need of a warrior with a pure heart. Kaizer almost laughed, as he knew, no such thing could exist. Purity and war cannot exist in the same soul.
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AuthorLawrence Henry is an aspiring author with more caffeine than time. BTW, here's some of my thoughts on a few varied subjects. Archives
July 2023
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