The Swordsman II

      A single rider burst out of the forest into the open grasslands. Steam rose from the flanks of his black destrier. Its mane billowed in the wind. Both animal and man were unarmored; their only cover had been the trees. In close pursuit, not 20 strides behind, were three more horsemen. “Theodoul!” the foremost of them shouted, bow in hand and reaching for an arrow from his saddle-mounted quiver. “Theodul! Halt your steed, and we shall treat you fairly.” The runaway turned his head only moments before the bow was pulled to full strength, and the archer’s fingers released the string. For a split second, the haunting whistle of the metal tip piercing the air could be heard over the thunder of the horses’ hooves before it buried itself deep into the right shoulder of its target. He let out a scream. A second arrow passed him at eye level and nicked his ear and brow. Warm blood rolled down his cheek. A third and a fourth, both aimed at the horse’s hind legs, missed their mark and hit the saddlebag, leaving a twangy hollow sound to be heard. Again, the pursued rider cried out. This time, out of anger instead of pain.

The chase continued, and the grasslands gave way to rocky hills. “No farther,” one of the three archers begged. “Let us ride no farther. I have witnessed many a man venture into these lands, and never have I seen one return. This is as good as a death sentence for the outlaw. Our lord will say the same. I assure you of this.” The distance between hunter and hunted grew as the former slowed their horses to a trot and finally turned back. Seeing that he had escaped capture and was finally alone, Theodoul reached behind him and opened his saddlebag. From it, he pulled a small eight-string gittern. One arrow had pierced the round back of the instrument while the other protruded from its head. The man brought his horse to an easy walk and cradled the pear-shaped instrument in his arms. His eyes settled on the horizon as his fingers delicately brushed over the strings.

“Driven by the sword of those I called my brothers.

It seems trust is just a coat of arms worn to fool another.

And how many knives now protrude from out my back?

No man, should my life lay in his hands, would hesitate to take that even which I lack.”

The melody accompanying these words was the saddest he could muster. The sharp pain in his right shoulder and the feel of blood trickling down his back forced him to pack away the instrument and dismount his horse. He slid from the saddle and stumbled a few steps once his feet touched the ground. The world was spinning. He slowly reached his left arm across his face and grabbed hold of the feathered shaft that extended from his body to the back. With a cry of pain, he gave it a strong pull. It barely budged. “I guess that bugger is staying put.” He muttered. “At least I now have my very own arrow always pointing me in the right direction.” He laughed at his own wittiness. The laughter turned to a cough. He took the reins, led his horse to a nearby forest, tied them around a branch, and sat on the cold floor. Images of his life at the castle flashed before him. The memories of parties and feasts were overwhelming. He could hear the joyful music and feel the warmth of the fire. “Fire.” He could only whisper. He felt the surrounding floor with his frozen hands and found some wood. He grabbed a flint and some kindling from his traveler’s pack and struck a spark. That is what he had wanted to be. A spark. A spark of goodness that could grow into a flame of virtue. But how could he have known it would go so wrong? How could he know those he considered his brothers would turn on him and plot to murder him? He had only been able to flee with his gittern and his breath. His life and everything he had built remained within the city walls. His house had been set ablaze, and he had run. “I ran, I ran,” he shouted these words, now sitting in the forest. Unable to stand, he dragged himself away from the small bonfire he had started. “Away from my house! Away from those walls I raised with my own two hands. Trust is nothing more than a lie that only fools believe!” On his elbows and with the gittern firm in his grasp, he pulled himself to the trunk of a large tree. Propping his left shoulder against it, he closed his eyes and again let his fingers dance across the strings.

“Where do I go when my only home,

Has been crushed by the wave of a burning flame?

How can I ever stand free without my back against a tree,

Knowing the moment I turn, I’ll be gone.

Man is a wolf without a pack of his own.

Here I stand, cursed to forever be alone.”

Wearily, Theodoul brushed back his long black hair. The cold had eaten through to his bones. The fire he had started was several paces away, and though it was growing, it was not enough to keep him warm. He shivered and listened to an owl and a few nocturnal birds sing their melodies. Wrapping his cloak around him, he settled in for a long night. He could not fall asleep, though. Something was changing. His heartbeat quickened. It did so, not because of a specific sound but instead due to the sudden stillness that moved among the trees. It seemed as though a blanket of silence had been laid over the forest. No chirping, no wind rustling in the leaves. His eyes darted from tree to tree. Had his pursuers changed their minds and continued their quest for vengeance? Were legends and fairytales insufficient to keep them from enacting their cruel form of justice? A foul scent floating on the evening breeze filled Theodoul’s lungs, forcing him to pull his cloak over his mouth and nose. In the distance, a few branches cracked, followed by another bout of eerie silence. Leaves stirred as the wind picked up. Theodoul squinted into the dark beyond his tame fire. Nothing. Then, the shadows his flame cast into the night began to move in unison, forming an ever-growing shape. Placing his hand on the moss-covered dirt, the man felt the ground tremble at a quickening rate. His chest tightened, and his mind grew numb. In the blink of an eye, two large pines, no more than 30 strides away from the traveler, burst into splinters as a monster crashed through them straight toward Theodoul. First, its jaw and two sharp ivory tusks took shape in the firelight, then its eyes, forelegs, and the bristled ridge upon its back. It bolted out of the darkness like a creature escaping the depths of torturous Hades. Theodoul had no time to think. In a powerful sweeping motion, the animal lowered its head and thrust it at the man, burying a tusk deep in the oak behind him, its snapping jaws only inches from Theodoul’s face. Before the monster could free itself, Theodoul had grabbed a shard of wood from the ground and unleashed a barrage of quick stabs on the beast’s head. A bloodcurdling roar filled the cold forest air. It swiped its paw across Theodoul’s body, leaving him with long gashes in his chest as it freed its tusk from the oak. For a moment, man and beast stared into each other’s eyes, both wincing in pain. The sudden sound of a metal blade being unsheathed cut through the night. They both turned their heads to look upon a boy holding a sword. He could not have been more than 19 years of age. Theodoul wanted to shout a warning to him. But before he could gather his strength, the beast had already attacked. The swordsman’s eyes showed every sign of fear, yet he stood his ground. Courage was not something that could be faked. The boy faced the predator and did so bravely. The battle was violent and short. They danced in and out of the firelight. At times, Theodoul lost sight of them as they disappeared into the shadows of the trees. There was no screaming or roaring. The only sounds were heavy breathing and the stirring of the muddy, leaf-covered ground. Theodoul tried to keep an eye on the glistening blade as it wove in and out of the monster’s flesh. Then its glimmer grew dim as it sank deep into the beast’s ribcage, and it collapsed to the floor.

The distant call of an owl returned. Theodoul forced himself from the tree and dragged himself to the battleground. “You fool!” He scolded the boy. “Show me your wounds.” The boy lay on a damp bed of moss, bloodied and injured. Life was draining from his body. He took a shallow breath. “Now I understand. This is courage.” “Who are you?” Theodoul asked. “That is what I came here to find,” was the reply. “At that moment…” he exhaled sharply and took another shallow breath, his ribcage barely rising. “…when I stepped into the firelight, you saw me. That is who I am.”

Several days passed before Theodoul made it to the next village. He could make out the wooden huts and the narrow cobblestone mud-caked roads. Distant yells of excitement and cheers reached his ears. “The troubadour is here! The storyteller brings us news!” The joyful cries turned to gasps as the folks saw the physical state of the traveler once he had ridden nearer. Two men rushed across the fields and hastily pulled him off the horse onto a wooden stretcher. By the time they reached the main square, a mob of curious townspeople had formed. “My gittern, get me my gittern”, Theodoul demanded in a weak voice. He was given the instrument, and he pulled himself off the stretcher to a large barrel. Wearily leaning against it, he looked out over the crowd. Wide eyes stared back at him. The people grew silent. Anticipation filled the square. His left hand gripped the neck of the gittern while his right hand hugged its pear-shaped body. The two arrows still protruded out the sides as he cleared his throat and began to pick the strings. “Honor and loyalty,” he began to sing softly, “do they form the foundation of a virtuous life, or are they the steel from which prison bars are forged?”