“The old wise-woman asked for you”, said Falt that evening.

“Oh?”

Stiel had heard about the wise-woman before, an old crone living in Stickle Pass not too far from the Windy Bridge. It was what the villagers called the wilderness, and that made them think of her as weird. The old woman had their respect, however, because of her potions, salves, and the help she offered women bearing children, or wanting to. She was as close to a midwife as anyone could remember Qaiel having, she just didn’t live there. The green-haired young man had never heard her name spoken.

“Yes”, continued Falt, “she did.”

“Well, what did she want?” Falt had a habit to not move on with things he deemed important, unless you prodded him for more information. Stiel sometimes found this little treat charming, to use one of his mothers words, but at other times - like this - it annoyed him a lot. He had to keep the urgency and irritation from his voice, a feat that had gotten harder the further away the completion of his Stand seemed to be.

“You, and your help. She asked if anyone would see you soon, but never waited for an answer. She had use of noble assistance, she said, whatever that means”, Falt said, poking the fire.

“Noble assistance?”

“Aye.”

“I see. When?”

“Right away I guess”, the farmer said, paused, and then continued, as if he’d debated with himself before going on. “It was almost as she looked at me and knew I was coming up here today.”

They sat quiet for a while, lost in thoughts. The moon was starting to break through the twilight, turning the cold evening into an even colder night.

“Will you see her?” Falt finally asked.

“Yes”, Stiel said. This could be his chance, a noble deed for his Stand. Besides, an old woman needing help - noble assistance even, whatever she meant by that - going to her aid was the honorable thing to do.

Stiel meant to be a honorable knight, no matter what.

Stiel of Uthrom, the green-haired Knight-in-Waiting, hardly felt the cold. It was partly due to his heritage, the highlands were a harsh place to grow up in, but also because his mind was far away from the present. He sat on one of those rocks, said to be the scattered remains of the giants’ big mountain, gazing into the starry sky, not caring nor noticing that the fire had faded into glowing embers, biding their time or gasping for wonderful air to flare yet again.

The Knight-in-Waiting thought of his mother, of the Noble Brotherhood, and the stupid tradition of a people who really didn’t have the luxury of turning away a strong warrior. Stiel was honest with himself, he had excelled at the Academy, and should he only be able to prove himself in this, his Ceremonial Stand, he’d be on his way to greatness and glory. He didn’t doubt that.

The green-haired young man did, however, doubt that it would ever come to that. His resolve was there, but the despair of impeding failure crept into the back of his head, chilling his spine in a way that the cold wind never could. It was but half a moon left of his time at the Stand, and had he not proved himself by the time the full moon glared at him yet again, the Stand would be a failure, and his future as a knight would be at the mercy of the Noble Brotherhood’s council. He knew what they would say, knew that his chances of being permitted to join the Moranian knights were not even slim, they were non-existent.

His brush with the rogues of Qaiel counted as one Ceremonial Stand, one of three needed, but that was it. No knights passed through here, no one challenged him, and there was no one arriving to challenge either.

At this time, when things were as they were in the world, Stiel felt that it was a foolish old tradition. When he was younger he’d had another point of view, but with the great shadow in the west, the continents greatest force - the Empire - clearly amassing its armies for war yet again, Morania should be taking good care of its strong sword arms.

The Knight-in-Waiting didn’t doubt the rumors that war was on the kingdom’s doorstep, Morania being the last strong western nation of old not to fly the Imperial banner, surely a thorn in the eye for the all-powerful mysterious Emperor.

Neither did Stiel doubt that he would not fight in this impeding war, but he didn’t want to do it on foot, with the commoners. He wanted to lead, and he wanted to gain fame and glory with the Moranian knights, a legendary force on the battlefield, feared and powerful.

Stiel sighed. Half a moon left, and not a challenge in sight.

It would take another hour or two with his mind lost in the cold dark night before he would let his dreary contemplations go, and get his rest.

Like a minute ago, when the ambush had closed around him, three guards rushing out of the protection of curtains. Someone had talked, obviously, otherwise they hadn’t been ready for him.

Then again, they really hadn’t been ready. Before the first guard had reached him, he’d been mortally wounded by a thrown dagger, protruding from his throat, stuck in to the hilt, scarlet blood appearing black in the gloomy dark of the corridor outside his victim’s quarters.

The assassin had faced the other two with a dagger in one hand, the other behind his back. He had nimbly sidestepped the first sword thrust, and deflected the second to the ground with his dagger, forcing the tip to hit the rug on the floor. Flipping it up with his foot, the killer could stomp down on the blade with the protection of the thick skin and fur, snapping it with his foot.

That was when the first guard had managed to slash his side, the assassin’s sidestepping motion being a tad too late, too slow, too lazy.

He had taken his revenge on the swordless guard, who tried to stab the killer with his dagger. Obviously he wasn’t used to the combination, the attack was poorly executed, and the assassin’s hidden hand could easily twirl around, revealing his claw knuckle, slashing the guard in the face, and then driving the point home with his dagger in the enemy’s side, in the joint of the breast plate. The killer knew where to strike, how to do it effectively, and how to do it sure.

The last guard was on the retreat, realizing that the fight was lost. He was calling for help, but the assassin made the words die in his throat with another well-aimed thrown dagger.

He finished off the dying guard with a quick slash over the throat.

The killer wasn’t bothered by the gloomy light in the room he entered, facing the lord of the house. It was an old man, holding a thin sword with a two-handed grip, shaking a little. The assassin could see that he knew how to use it, muscles rarely forget something that has been honed with years and years of practice.

It didn’t matter, the killer moved with the speed of a Zaranthian panther, getting close and around the blade, firmly digging his knuckle-claws into the man’s unprotected chest. He met his victim’s eyes, respecting the old man’s calm. Not many could meet the yellow flare of his demon eyes without quivering, but this old warrior’s steely gaze accepted his defeat, his death, with grace.

The blood was already sticky on his daggers and knuckle-claws, and in his side, as he calmed and cooled down in the room. The mission, the contract, was completed. Now to collect the reward.

Ke’Malon Brizabrazni took a deep breath. He realized he had just entered the politics of the Empire, taking the stage in something that would echo throughout the world.

He didn’t care. He left the house in the noble district unseen, and unmoved by his actions.

He had ridden out of Qaiel before dawn, after helping the woman with her wounds. She’d gotten away with a broken arm and some bruises - lucky, Stiel thought. They had found Falt in an old outhouse, tied up and dazed, but alive and fairly well. The farmer had cried out of joy, and vowed to come and visit the knight-in-waiting, bringing provisions, in a few days time. And of course he vouched for the green-haired man, telling the villagers - all woken up and gathered - what’s been happening.

Stiel’s name was cleared, justice served.

The first challenge of the Ceremonial Stand was over. It wasn’t a noble duel, or a jousting challenge from a knight, as would be ideal and the stories told, but still. The knight-in-waiting had fought for honor and justice, and for his ideals, which was good enough.

Two more to go.

Stiel came upon the Windy Bridge, feeling numb. He wasn’t sure if it was the cold morning winds and the rain in the air, or the blood spilled on his hands.

Washing it away just didn’t help. The red sun had told him that.

So ends Quest for Knighthood.
Stiel’s adventures will continue in The Green Knight, available early 2008!

Tomorrow’s sun will rise in a shroud of blood, Stiel mused, but felt no joy in it. This was what had to be done, for honor, for justice, and for himself. What he had trained for, been born for.

This was his first Ceremonial Stand.

The scattered houses were dark, all of them. A thin strain of smoke could be seen from some of them, but they were obviously covering their fires. He was expected, and fear clung to the quiet crisp night wind.

Stiel kept to the side of the street, trailing the houses’ walls, feeling lucky that this wasn’t happening in the city, where glass windows were common. Here, in the wilderness, windows were small holes in the wall, barred at night, and most of the days as well.

“He will come”, said a muted voice that Stiel recognized at once. It came from a house the green-haired knight just passed.

“How do you know? We scared him off, so we did!” said another voice that Stiel didn’t know. He sidled up to a barred window and tried to peak in through the cracks, but something was shrouding it from the inside, a cloth most likely.

“Because he’s a noble dumbass, you moron!” sneered the thug.

“Did he really kill Falt in cold blood?” asked a third voice, the voice of a woman.

“Yes!” sneered the thug again.

“Aye, he did”, said a fourth voice that Stiel thought belonged to the last of the thugs from the ambush at the Windy Bridge. The knight-in-waiting didn’t think it sounded very believable.

“We’ve been over this, woman”, said the first thug.

“It’s unlikely, that’s all I’m saying”, said the woman. “If you have a quarrel with him, take it out of our village, that’s all I’m…”

“Shut up!” roared the thug.

Right. Two thugs from the ambush, thought Stiel, and then there’s two unknowns, the woman and the first man.

I’ll take my chances.

Stiel went up to the door, and studied it. No light sipping out here either, which should mean that it’s covered. He pushed it lightly, but it didn’t budge. Probably barred, but the cracks between door and wall were wide enough for his blade, so he drew the sword, carefully slid it in, and found the bar at once. Gently, he tried it, and found that he could lift it.

The knight-in-waiting entered the simple house with force, and slammed the door shut behind him, barring it again in the same fluent motion.

He took in the one big room at a glance, seeing a horrified older man slump back towards the fireplace at the far end, and a stunned woman of forty or so years, grasping her plain woolen dress in surprise. The two thugs from the ambush stood by a table in the middle of the road. It was a simple home, with a packed earthen floor, beds made of hay and wool close by the fireplace. Cloth were covering the windows, and the door.

“You!” roared the big thug, and rushed for his club, leaning against the fireplace.

“You’re a liar and a thief”, said Stiel in a stern voice, pointing his sword at the thug, “and your life is now forfeit!”

The other thug snatched his long knife from the table, but backed towards the fireplace and his companion, not leaving Stiel with his eyes.

“Where is Falt, you scum?” asked Stiel, and advanced on the two thugs, while the man and woman backed against the opposite wall. “Where have you hidden him? Tell me!” he roared, making the knfie-thug startle. “And don’t tell me you’ve killed him, you little devils, or so help me by the Gods, I’ll make you pay!”

“We’ll tell you nothing!” roared the thug with the club, advancing. “You killed him!”

“I did no such thing and you know it!”

The knife-wielding thug cast a sideways glance at his companion, and then at the man and the woman by the wall.

“Falt’s not dead?” asked the woman suddenly.

“I don’t know, answered Stiel.” He had stopped his advance on the thugs. “They have him, I believe.”

“Is this true, Sombar?” the woman asked.

The thug with the club called Sombar spat on the floor.

“Oalp, is he speaking the truth?” she asked.

“No he’s not!” screamed the knife-thug shrilly, but the cry was as hollow as the truth in his words.

“You idiot”, muttered Sombar, and raised his club. “Now we’ll have to kill this moron knight, and then take care of those two!” He cast one evil glance at the man and woman. “Don’t move, and you might live.”

“That’s a good idea”, said Stiel in a cold voice.

Sombar took two steps forward, and then swung at the knight-in-waiting. Stiel easily sidestepped, bringing his sword up in time to deflect a low slash from Oalp’s long knife.

“I’ll smash your skull!” roared Sombar, and swung again and again and again. And with every swing came that low knife-slash from Oalp.

Stiel was forced back, not wanting to do a straight-on parry against the big wooden club Sombar was working so fiercely. The green-haired warrior remembered all too well how powerful this man’s swings were, and he couldn’t risk being dazed with the knife coming at him all the time.

He was so preoccupied with staying out of harms way, tiring Sombar’s arms so that he could retaliate, that he didn’t see the woman sneak up behind them.

“You bastards!” she screamed, and hit Sombar hard in the back with a chair.

The thug stumbled, and turned. At the same time, Oalp’s knife came at Stiel.

“No!” the knight-in-waiting screamed, as he deflected the knife, and took a quick step forward.

“Lord!” screamed Oalp, as he realized that Sombar’s club wouldn’t follow his slash this time, but Stiel was faster, turning the parry into an upward slash, tearing clothes, skin and flesh from Oalp’s chest and chin. The man fell back, screaming, but Stiel was already past him.

Sombar swung his club at the woman, who tried to get out of the way. The spikes and wood hit her in the side, twirling her through the air and crashing into the table, where she lay very still.

The thug swung around just in time to meet Stiel’s sword with his club, but this time it was the green-haired man who’s strokes were deadly powerful. Sombar staggered back, making desperate parry after parry, stumbling for his life.

He stepped into the fireplace with his left foot, recoiled out of instinct, and found himself impaled on the knight-in-waiting’s sword.

The club clattered to the floor, as Sombar gripped the blade protruding from just under his chest.

Stiel drove it in, to the hilt, and the thug screamed in agony.

“Where is Falt?” the knight-in-waiting asked. “Tell me, and it’ll be over quick.”

“Go fuck a goat!” gurgled Sombar.

He died hanging on Stiel’s sword.

“Looks like they’re gathering for some sort of council”, said Stiel, and patted his restless horse. He saw that well enough from the horseback. “What do you reckon?”

“I don’t know”, said Falt slowly, “but I’d like to find out. I’ll go down first and see what’s going on.”

Stiel raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing. He’d come to trust the man, he was harmless, and this little trip to the village of Qaiel had assured him that Falt had indeed been a victim of the circumstances during the ambush at his Stand.

“Go ahead.”

“I’ll be back before sundown”, said Falt, dropped from the rock, and skidded down the slope towards the village.

Stiel dismounted, gave his horse a friendly pat, and then sat down with his back against one of those supposedly remains of that great mountain of giants. He sighed, looked at the sky and guessed that there were just over three hours worth of day left, then the darkness would start to sneak in. Plenty of time for Falt to get down and back.

He had a feeling, a disturbing feeling that something was wrong. Maybe he was wrong about Falt, or maybe it was something else.

Perhaps I’m just worried, he thought, about the Stand. Time is running out, a steady stream of hours and days, pouring away from me.

Sitting by the big moss-covered rock, almost nodding off, the glory of the Moranian Knights felt very far away.

***

Day turned to dusk, and Stiel was nearing Qaiel. Falt hadn’t returned, and the green-haired knight didn’t want to wait any longer. Besides, he still had that bad feeling, a growing one in his stomach. It was shared by his horse, who snorted and felt skittish.

Qaiel was a modest village, he knew that from his travels to the lowlands and the Windy Bridge that was his Stand, but now it seemed almost deserted. It was really just one dusty street, and some scattered one-story buildings. Simple dwellings for simple people, he thought, as he entered the small village.

“There he is!” a man screamed from a distance. The dusk was making it hard to see him, but he was a way in front of him, perhaps lurking in a doorway.

“Get him!” another man bellowed.

From the houses, five men emerged, all bearing pitchforks and clubs, advancing menacingly from the front.

“What is this nonsense?” snarled Stiel, and laid his hand on his sword.

“It’s payback time!” came a voice from behind, and Stiel knew who it was before he turned his head.

The burly thug from the other day stood there, spiked club in hand, and with him his companion.

“You killed my mate”, the thug bellowed, “and you killed poor Falt in cold blood, who just wanted to trade with you!” The thug then seemed to address his fellow villagers rather than him: “And all we wanted was to trade! Not fight! This so-called knight takes his rites too seriously! Will you kill a curious child next?”

“Liar!” roared Stiel, but he knew he was talking to deaf ears on this one. They may be gullible farmers and hunters, but they were outnumbering him, with five closing in on him, and another two behind him.

Still, vengeance was at hand, so Stiel violently turned his mount and thundered towards the two thugs, who barely got out of the way, cursing.

The thoughts were racing through the green-haired man’s head, as he galloped out of the village, chased only by taunts and curses from the villagers. Had they killed Falt? He still didn’t believe the poor man had been in on it, if he had he’d been in the ambush. So where was he? Dead or alive?

Alive seemed the more likely choice. There was no reason to really kill him, the thugs could scare him to silence for sure, they obviously had a strong hold on both him and the village.

Stiel made up his mind. “I’m a knight”, he whispered to the twilight, slowed down his horse and dropped from its back.

With his sword in his hand, and the shield on his back, Stiel darted from cover to cover, back towards Qaiel.

If nothing else, vengeance would be at hand.

“I didn’t mean to…” Falt sobbed, unable to continue. “They made me…”

Stiel held up his hand. He believed the poor man. “Indeed they did”, he said, and shook his head. “And now one of them is dead and the other two running for their lives, I’d reckon.”

Falt quietly sobbed at this.

“Did you know them?”

“They are local men. Hunters and trappers.”

Stiel nodded. Dawn was upon them.

“They stole my mule”, Falt said sullenly.

“That they did.”

***

After they had buried the body, unceremonially, and shared food by the fire, Stiel bade Falt to tell him a little bit about himself. He came from Qaiel, where he had a few sheep and a little patch of dreary land. Food was scarce and he lived a simple life, alone, although he wasn’t shied by the other villagers or anything like that.

“It’s a dull place”, he explained, “where people come to hide or just because they have to be somewhere.”

The lowlands were a harsh place to settle, none of the great stone roads leading here, with little trade with the rest of the kingdom.

“Sometimes the plains people come to trade with us”, Falt said, “but mostly they stay out of Qaiel, and our way. We don’t bother each other much.”

Stiel nodded to that, a much preferred arrangement to the wars that had shaken Morania’s core boundaries barely a century ago, before the plains people and their speakers of the wind had been subdued, forced to peace. There were still tensions, he’d heard at the Academy.

“You know, they have a story about all these rocks and boulders”, Falt said, eager to break the silence. “The plains people that is.”

“Do tell it.”

“They say that the lowlands were once all a great slope around an enormous mountain. On this mountain, the giants of cold and warmth lived, a fearsome bunch it would seem since they used all mankind as slaves and wenches.”

Stiel nodded and poked the fire. It was growing dark.

“One day an old woman, all leathery and thin, came across the plains and approached the mountain. She asked the giants to leave her people, the plains people of course, alone. Naturally, the giants laughed. They had their way with her, in spite of her being ugly, and then ripped her limbs off.”

“Harsh”, Stiel commented.

“Yes. They were in for a surprise though. A great shrieking wind erupted from where the old hag’s arms and legs had been, and this wind flew up, formed a great fist, and slammed down on the giant’s mountain, punching it to small bits and pieces!” Falt said, and stifled a yawn. “These bits and pieces are the rocks and boulders that scatter the lowlands.”

“Is there a mountain, or a trace of one?”

“No. But the plains people have a shrill warcry, and are calling themselves Shrieks, so there’s something in the story I belive.”

Stiel nodded. “Usually, there is.”

They sat silent for a while, staring into the dark. Stiel thought of all the big rocks and boulders he’d seen while entering the lowlands, sometimes covered in moss, other times just standing over the plains grass, a mystery in itself. It was an explanation as any, he guessed, when thinking of Falt’s story, and no more ubelievable than the one of the First King of Morania, Conquerer of the West.

“Tomorrow we’ll ride into Qaiel and restock, your so-called friends got away with most of my supplies”, he finally said, coming back from his contemplations.

Falt yawned and nodded, looking at ease. His nose was broken, and the flickering firelight made his whole face look distorted. Stiel silently promised himself to settle the score with the thugs, should he run into them. After all, right was right, and he was sworn to do the right thing as a knight.

“We’ll sleep now”, he said, but looking at Falt he saw that the man, obviously exhausted, had already laid down his head.

The burly man had approached the bridge, holding a wooden club with some rusty spikes, looked around, shrugged and then left. Stiel was glad for it, he had reeked of shit and disease, or just plain old stink, it was hard to tell which in the crisp air. No acceptable challenge, that meant that he was glad to be rid of him.

And now, a few days later, a second man approached, on a mule it would seem. Stiel stood on a rock, they laid littered all over the place here as well, partly covered in moss and lava. He had made his camp in the shade of one, built a simple shelter and dug a fireplace. They served as lookout points as well.

The man wore simple clothes, a farmer that had scourged his neighbors for necessary equipment for this endeavor, Stiel thought.

He knew that the man would challenge him, in spite of him being able to cross the small chasm without any real effort. The man’s sword that made a rhythmic clunky sound hitting against the plain wooden shield told him that.

“Ho, my good man!” he called, having jumped down from the rock and pulled on his hauberk and fastened his sword belt. His shield and helmet lay by the bridge’s foot.

“Ho to you, knight!” the man called back. He wasn’t far away now, so he dismounted and tied his mule to a bush, a scraggy old animal with brown fur and discolored spots. The beast started to devour the rash plains grass, at first with some doubts, but then finally settling for it.

Stiel stood firm while the man, appearing to be around his age, perhaps a bit older, fumbled with his sword and shield. It was simple equipment, and as far as he could tell, the man only wore thick layers of cloth, no real armor. He did put on a fur chestpiece, but it didn’t look much to the world.

“I challenge you, knight!” the man bellowed.

Stiel nodded. His honor forbade him to decline a challenge. “On foot, I take it?”

“What?”

“You challenge me to a melee battle on foot, I take it?”

“Yes, yes!” almost screamed the man, somewhat flustered. He looked around anxiously.

“We’ll cross swords”, Stiel said, but inwardly he shook his head at the poor state his challenger’s weapon was in, with rust eating its blade, “on the bridge then.”

Moments later, the two men faced off on the bridge. Stiel knew he frightened the pitiful man, it was all that the farmer could do but not to clack teeth. He knew why, as any onlooker would, seeing the poor posture and arms that the man sported, and then the strong pose of the Knight-in-Waiting, a trained warrior.

“I am Stiel of the Uthrum highlands, Knight-in-Waiting making this Stand”, said Stiel in a formal voice, as the custom bade. “You shall not pass.”

“My name is Falt of Qaiel and I challenge you”, stumbled the man, obviously uncertain of what he should say.

At that Stiel advanced, and Falt swung his sword in a wide arc, panic in his eyes. The Knight-in-Waiting easily deflected the blow with his shield, and made a few thrusts just for the sake of it, not actually looking to hurt the man.

Falt screamed with pain, as Stiel’s tip nicked him in the side despite this. The man was so unsteady on his legs that he’d stumbled forward, following his initial swing, that he almost threatened to impale himself on Stiel’s sword.

Stiel took half a step back, slashed out at the rusty sword, and almost managed to disarm poor Falt, who jerked it out of the way just in time, a stinging buzz in his hand.

A frenzy overtook the farmer then, screaming and wildly thrashing his sword and shield about, in no way harmful for the skilled Knight-in-Waiting. Stiel dodged a blow, parried another, and took two others with his shield. This man is a danger to himself, more than to me, he thought, as he waited for the breath to leave the crazed would be berserk.

Stiel’s horse neighed and made a thrashing sound from his small camp on the other side of the bridge.

“What the…” the green-haired man said, and managed to sneak a peak over his shoulder.

There, two men were trying to calm down Stiel’s horse, the beast not wanting to go with the unknown robbers, while a third was rummaging through the Knight-in-Waiting’s belongings, taking as much as he could.

“You bastards!” Stiel silently growled, turned towards his now very scared challenger, out of wind, and out of luck it would seem. Two quick steps forward, a quick feint to the right to open up Falt’s defenses, and then following up with the shield, slamming the farmer’s face hard and sending him to the ground in a blur of spurting blood.

“I didn’t…” started Falt, just before the hit actually registered in his head and he lost his bearings for a time, hitting the bridge without managing to keep a hold of his sword, the plain shield only staying with him due to the strapping that held it fast.

Stiel had already turned and was spurting towards the camp.

“Hold, scavengers, or I’ll chop you to pieces, you scum!” he screamed, enraged.

The one rummaging through Stiel’s camp took off, arms full of trinkets, pelts from Stiel’s hunting, and some other things that the Knight-in-Waiting had taken with him on the trip.

The other two, however, stopped fussing with the horse and drew weapons. One had a simple sword and a long knife, while the other had a spiked club. Stiel recognized him as the burly and foul-smelling man from a few days past.

Stiel slowed down somewhat as he neared the two, meeting the club’s downward blow with his shield, and actually dodging the low slash of the sword.

“You’ll regret this!” he bellowed, and struck out with his shield, forcing the burly man back, lashed out with a thrust of his sword, nicking the other thug in the thigh but nothing more.

The club came at him again, with quite some strength behind it this time, and Stiel had to deflect it to the side with his shield for fear of going numb with the blow. Another swing followed, with the same action from the green-haired warrior, but the pure strength behind the blows forced Stiel to just parry the simple but effective slashes from the other fellow.

“We’ll take your armor too, good Sir!” spat the club-wielder, as they forced Stiel backwards, much thanks to his swings. “And piss on your corpse!”

It was obvious to the Knight-in-Waiting where the danger lay here, so he dodged the next high-swung club, spurted to his right, towards the sword-wielding thug, and slashed out at his throat. The thug, not being fast enough to parry the attack safely, dropped to the ground and rolled away.

Stiel felt the club’s spikes gash his left shoulder as he spun about, but he ignored it and slammed the shield hard, flat side first, into the thug, who staggered backwards, more chocked than hurt, but somewhat dazed nonetheless.

That gave him time. At a flick of the hand, he loosened the shield’s strapping, turned and sent the other thug, just getting to his feet, sprawling to the ground again with a well-aimed kick in the belly. He then spun about and threw his shield, side first, at the club-wielder, who’d gotten his bearings again and was going for Stiel’s exposed back.

The shield hit him square in the throat, making him fall to the ground in agony, a scream dying with the lack of air.

Stiel spun again, and met the thrust from the other tug with his sword, sidestepping a poor knife-slash, and then he advanced, a series of high chops, which the thug had to parry using both sword and knife for fear of letting them through his defenses and cleaving his head. Stiel forced him back a step, and then another, with his seemingly ferocious assault.

Suddenly the green-haired warrior went down almost to a knee, and slashed low, upwards, under the thug’s parry, opening up his gut, spilling blood and entrails, a hot steamy mess spraying him.

Stiel spun yet again, just to see the other thug stumble away, he’d soon crossed the bridge and was stealing Falt’s mule, fleeing. Falt himself sat on the bridge where he’d fallen, trying to stop his nose from bleeding, looking thoroughly miserable.

The Knight-in-Waiting glanced at the dying thug on the ground, his hands trying to stop his life from running out of him, but the dirty puddle on the ground and the lack of strength in his eyes, in his movements, was telling enough.

Stiel lowered his sword. All was still.

In this landscape a lone man rode on a big dark horse. The man’s frame, his squared shoulders and proud posture made it clear, had he had any onlookers, that this was one of highlander breed. That, and a warrior, for besides the sword that hang by his hip, a mule trailed after him, carrying a crude lance for jousting, a shield with crackling paint, and a slightly dented helmet.

This wasn’t a normal sight in this part of Morania, the kingdom feared on the battlefield for its proud knights, but it wasn’t as uncommon as you might think. Many a knight were sent out in the wilderness, to make their Ceremonial Stand in a pass, on a bridge, or someplace else where a traveller had to pay due, or challenge the knight. Three honorable challenges had to be won, then the knight could return in glory to his family and court, to be truly knighted and initiated in the Noble Brotherhood of the Moranian Knighthood.

This was the case, as the well-versed in such matters would have guessed, for this highland-bred warrior as well.

His name was Stiel of the Uthrom highlands, and he was proud, strong, and noble. He was also sent out here to die.

He had green hair and emerald eyes, with the forest people’s fair blood coursing through his veins. Hated by the establishment he came from, forced to make a Ceremonial Stand far from the ways where noble knights might traverse, closer to robbers, killers and highwaymen. Farther still from a likely honorable challenger as well.

But Stiel didn’t mind much. This was his task, the Stand chosen for him. It was not his place to question the Academy’s decision. He’d learned that much at least, he smiled for himself, when contemplating such matters.

The Academy years hadn’t been nice on him. His family was disgraced, and most nobles engaged in the Moranian War Councli didn’t want him to become a knight in the first place. But Stiel had persisted, and so had his mother. Not his actual mother of course, he had never met the fair one that had enticed his father, and then left a baby with emerald eyes by the estate’s servant’s entrance. There had been no doubt what he was, nor who the father was, but around his family’s land they soon didn’t care much. Besides his sometimes peculiar calmness, he was like any other kid.

His father didn’t take his arrival well. He died before Stiel saw his fifth birthday, and everything went downhill from there. At times he thought that his stepmother only had one thing that kept her going after the family’s falling from grace, and that was to salvage what was left and make a knight of her son. Even if he wasn’t hers by birth.

So Stiel’s years at the Academy had been hard, with other Knights-in-Waiting doing their best to dissuade him of his notions of glory and honor, but he had matured early and stood fast on principles. And no matter what, he still had the knightly birthright, the blood of the first king of Morania, in him. However tainted, his long-bearded weapon master had sneered viciously.

Upon his leaving the Academy to take his Stand, his mother - birth or no - had said that this is the final test, and he had readily agreed, and marveled at how old and torn she’d been. It wasn’t hard to understand why. Most of the estate were falling apart, and the treasure chest that his father had kept locked with seven silver keys was open and empty. They had sold most of their furniture, and although she wouldn’t tell him, Stiel knew that it was partly his fault. It had cost her a small fortune to get him an admission to the Academy, and they charged handsomely for the pupil’s training. It was fitting and normal, though, since a commissioned knight was paid handsomely at even the most remote count’s table. And a famous, strong and successful knight, could expect titles and land as well, something that would restore the family treasury, and - dare he dream - also the value of the name Uthrom.

He knew this, and so he held his head up high, focusing on the task at hand. No small feat, given that if he wasn’t a knight on his twentieth birthday, he’d be disgraced, his mother would be devastated, and all the family’s sacrifices would be in vain.

* * *

Stiel was nineteen years old, and his Ceremonial Stand was a day’s ride beyond the village of Qaiel, a small settlement consisting of mostly hunters, shepherds, and the occasional outlaw, he was sure. A sad place, he’d past it some hours ago, asked around and resupplied. The twenty or so houses were mostly mud and rocks, small patches of hardy turnips and other vegetables the only thing besides the plains sheep and the well, that was anything to see. There had been a surliness to the village, one that seem to be common in the lowlands as far as Stiel had seen. As if these people, beyond the Fenian River, didn’t have the will to stand up straight, he thought.

He knew he’d see more of Qaiel. His supplies would last him until Autumn turned to Winter, he’d hunt small game to make sure of that, but when the cold northern winds brought the snow, he’d have to resupply again.

It was a hopeless quest for the green haired Knight-in-Waiting, it should be at least, that was why they sent him out here. The forest spawn, the false knight, the green devil. They called him a lot of things.

That’s why he took it in stride. That was the only thing he could do.

He would see it through.

Fallen

So I stood there,
On top of it all
Speaking to angels,
And trusting them all

All was clear and true,
Life’s a concept to me
Destiny’s path is solid,
Plain for me to see

Then came the storm,
Of darkness and fright
Took us by heart,
Ate our souls in the night

Hilltops of heaven,
Angels speaks to you and I
The shadows overcame,
So everybody must die

Fallen to heart,
Fallen to soul
Fallen by choice,
Fallen by the foul

So I stand here,
Beside mountains of hate
Blood and death behind,
I walk my own path of fate

- Ke’Malon Brizabrazni