Knight by Jorsch via www.DeviantArt.com
Evan’s horse pranced in front of his hundred soldiers. He reined the nervous horse into line. On the hillside opposite his tiny force, at least five companies of enemy soldiers faced him across the valley. His goal, the Wall of Truth, was on the other side of the hill where his enemy massed. What was left of his legion had fought their way across mountain, desert and multiple armies to the goal just beyond this battle. They had to win through.
“Sir Evan.” Jason, his second-in-command brought his racing steed to a hard stop, the horse rearing, battle-shod hooves cleaving the air. “The enemy has left a gap, Sir. It’s to the left, half a mile distant. The man used a rag, the remains of the once bright tunic that covered his armor, to wipe his face of the sweat brought on by the noon-day sun. “It is within your grasp. We need only flank these barbarians and the prize is ours.”
Evan reined his horse in again. It was his last battle steed, brought all the way from his own grass-covered estates. It had survived all this time but Evan was ready to walk the whole way home if he could only reach the bloody wall. That’s what he’d begun to call it, to himself only, after the first six months of the trek. His original reason for seeking the Wall of Truth was long burned to ashes in his mouth. Now it was just the quest. It mattered not that he had anything left after reaching the damn thing.
He nodded to his second. Steadfast, honest, loyal, the man didn’t deserve a leader such as Evan. “Well done, Sir Boyne.” The noise of the opposing force, yelling insults, banging spear and sword against their shields, made it difficult to speak. “We’ll send ten of our men to feint to the right, ahead of the rest of us. We’ll ride for your gap. With luck the barbarians will be confused.”
Sir Boyne smashed his mailed fist against his chest-plate. “You will win through, Sir.”
Evan slapped his visor down with a creak, shutting out the bright, sunny day. On the run for the last three years, he’d lost his yeoman and many supplies. No matter. It was now or never. Sir Boyne raised his javelin, the ribbons long tattered. Their lone horn sounded. The javelin was lowered, pointing forward. Every tenth man raced forward, three of them, archers, shot arrows across the flower-studded valley.
It took a moment but when the enemy realized the attack was on they charged down the hill. Three companies of horsemen, horse-hair tails streaming from their helmets, screamed their defiance.
When the ten reached the bottom of their hill, another twenty raced after them, then another thirty. In the confusion, Evan and his manservant slipped away to the left, heading for the gap Sir Boyne had indicated.
The horses plowed through the stinking mud. Evan raised his visor to get at least a breath of air. Carried on the wind the sound of the battle drifted over them. It seemed so far away. The two men located the passage between the hills and found themselves behind enemy lines. It was a mile ride to the wall.
The wall dwarfed anything Evan had ever seen. It rose above him the height of seven men and in both directions as far as the eye could see. Crenellated at the top, defensive towers were placed every hundred feet. The two men hesitated, afraid of the towers, but no arrows flew. At the wall rust red stains ran from between the courses of rough-hewn blocks. It was the sight of a finger bone that made Evan understand that the walls were slaked with the blood of the builders.
“Sir,” his manservant whispered. “It’s time. Ask the question. There may still be time to save the others.”
Evan knew better. The remains of his once mighty army were being slaughtered as they sat there. For what? So that his king might know the answer to a question that no one cared about any longer?
He pulled his gauntlet off of his right hand and laid it against the stone of the wall. “Great wall,” he chanted. “Will King Geoffrey win against our enemies from Detralia?”
Evan’s mind burst with light. Sound and fury washed over him. When he woke, he was on the ground, his manservant trying desperately to pull him to his feet. “We must go, my lord. The battle is coming.”
Evan groaned. His head felt as though it was split in half. He pulled himself onto the horse and his manservant led them west, Evan hardly aware of their escape.
It took two years to sneak back through the countries they’d challenged as they had come through. He arrived at the palace alone, his manservant dead six months earlier of dysentery. A party was in progress. Ladies swirled in bright colored dresses as knights and lords escorted them around the dance floor. The gathering fell silent as he marched, head high, armor rusted and squeaking across the hall to the king’s dias.
He knelt in front of the king’s table. The king held a sop of gravy-covered bread, dripping, between his fingers.
“Sir Evan.” The king said, finally recognizing the man.
“Sire. I have the truth from the bloody wall.”
The hall was silent. “Tell me, good knight.”
Evan stood. Slowly he pulled his sword, his only property still polished bright. “The wall told me,” he took two steps forward. Before the courtiers could respond, he ran the king through. “You were worthless.”
The crowd gasped. Soldiers rushed to contain Sir Evan. Too late. The king was dead. Later Evan was released from the tower. He was the King’s heir after all. The king sent him on a fool’s errand expecting him to be killed. Evan ruled forty years, the land prospered. He knew, after all, the cost of a life.
The End
968 Words
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