This is
Thord Daniel Hedengren

It had taken over a week until he saw the first human being approach the Windy Bridge, a poor excuse for an epic Ceremonial Stand. The bridge itself were hardly even necessary anymore since the pass it had once crossed now had fallen in, so a person on foot could easily cross, and Stiel could hardly see why any wagons would come out here, so far from the village Qaiel and civilization. Beyond the bridge were hills, and ultimately the mountain range that separated Morania from the Eastern Sea.

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.

The wind was kind for once in the billowing low lands of Morania, but it still managed to carry a small tint of frost and bite in the late afternoon. Hills and big massive rocks, a lonely tawny bush, and the occasional tree dominated the landscape. Besides the sharp plains grass of course, yellow after the hardships of Summer, the Sun hadn’t been kind. Scorched and torn, hard on man and beast alike, it was all over the lowlands.

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.