Alexander 1
Josh AlexanderWord Count: 4460
Steve Ersinghaus
Creative Writing: Fiction
4/12/2018
Story 2
Cursed
Chapter 1
The force of his own momentum carried him all the way to the ground. Alic tasted blood. Blood and dirt. How had he gotten here, again?
Oh yes.
His father.
A father he had never met. When Alic had agreed to join the dead man's Order, he had done so with visions of glory in his mind’s eye. Since then, however…
“Stand! Stand and take your blows like a man!” His opponent thundered above him, “Or perhaps you are not a man, but a girl clad in armor?” Laughter rose from all around.
Alic pushed all of his pain, physical and otherwise, out of mind. His helmet had been lost in the fall, but he was glad to be rid of it. Useless, hot thing. Now he could breathe. Alic tensed his muscles, composed his thoughts, took a deep breath, and threw his legs underneath himself. Keeping low, he spun on the balls of his feet to face the hulking man clad in heavy plate mail.
Without hesitation, Alic lunged at his adversary’s waist for a full-on tackle. If he were too slow, he would pay for it. Sure enough, the other knight had already started raising his sword skyward, preparing for a heavy downward chop. But he was a second too late and Alic was already on him. The big man was thrown to the ground and the air escaping his lungs sounded like bellows. Quick as a whip, Alic had a foot on the large scuffed chest plate and the tip of his sword shining at the knight’s throat.
“Do you yield?”
The man wheezed a response. Alic yelled it this time, “Do you yield?”
His opponent sighed, “Aye”.
Cheers rose from the surrounding crowd. Alic fetched his helmet and place it, over-turned, in the dirt where it resounded intermittently with the clang of coins dropped by those who applauded. He then strode to where his friend lay on his back like a great armored turtle and pulled him to his feet. Knighthood was not what it used to be.
Just that morning, in fact, Alic had been thinking on the new position that knights held in the world. He was convinced that he had been born in the wrong generation. Just a few decades too late for glory. His father had been one of the last true knights. His sword sworn to the people of Pelmyre. He had not been a street performer.
The same could not be said for Alic. Alic had been born just when those men had landed on the opposite shore of Pelmyre wearing stark white robes. They brought with them strange magics, inventions, and ideas. They spread across the country like a plague and, by the time Alic was only nine, they had reached his home on the western shore.
They called themselves the Bringers of Light. They had come to Pelmyre to generously spread knowledge and secrets previously unknown to the people of such an isolated country. Naturally, this knowledge was used to make war. The new weapons were so strong and worked so well that sword and shield were deemed ineffective by comparison. It was only after all of this that Alic had been approached to join the Green Shield Knights in light of his late father’s status within the Order. And he had said yes! He had been excited! He would get to fight and win glory! He would gain respect and-.
“Oy!,” Alic felt a heavy thump on his head, “We are going! That’s enough for today, I have had my ass kicked six times now. Get out of your head and walk with me to the pub.”
Alic blinked at Bavol for a moment, still swimming up from the thick pools in his mind, trying to find the surface. Rays of sunlight peaked around the edges of his towering friend’s wide frame. If anyone was mountain made human, it was his comrade Bavol. He stood a head and a half taller than Alic and boasted three times his width. Little of that mass was fat. Bavol bulged head to toe with muscle. Their act had obviously been just that. In regular combat, Alic may win one in every ten fights against his large friend thanks to his superior speed. In addition to sheer strength, Bavol had taken to their training like none before him. He was the best swordfighter and overall combatant of the Green Shield knights. And he was Alic’s best friend.
The knights set off down the tightly packed streets of the small town of Rikit. Armor clad, helmets in hand, they walked side-by-side with butchers, hand maidens, blacksmiths, and beggars. Indeed, knighthood had changed greatly.
Within a quarter of an hour they reached the dirty pub, above which they had rented an equally filthy room. Upon entering, the familiar little bell above the door let out a few unenthusiastic rings. The friends veered left and fell into their usual chairs in the corner, allowing them a view of the small square outside. Bavol’s chair creaked ever more loudly and was beginning to wobble. Alic would have warned his friend that it may collapse soon, but he was lost in thought again. He stared blankly through the grimy window panes, beyond the square, ignoring the tannery across the way, and into nothingness.
“Hello? Alic? Come back to me, Brother!” Bavol’s heavy voice pulled him back into reality, where two tankards of ale had evidently walked from the bar and jumped onto their little round table.
“What the hell are you dreaming about now?” Bavol drew several deep gulps of his brew.
Alic did not answer right away, but sat in silence a few seconds longer before sipping his own drink and clearing his throat to respond, “What are we doing, Bavol?”
“Well, I thought we were having a drink and celebrating yet another day of you breaking my skull and us getting a few more coins,” Bavol responded with clear irony in his voice.
“That is exactly it!,” Alic let his agitation escape through clenched teeth, “We are knights, Bavol! We should be protecting people, fighting for a king, dying with glory!”
“Oh, is that all?” Bavol raised his eyebrows, clearly amused, “I suppose next, you want us to go kill a dragon and take its head to the castle as proof of our bravery.”
Alic chose not to be offended, “No, old friend, I do not wish to slay mythical beasts. But we were trained to fight! Those years were no easy time for either of us, and we both have the scars to prove it! What was the point of it all if we are reduced to being out here, in some sty of a town, dueling for a handful of pieces? My father fought and died in the Order, for a people he had sworn to protect.”
“Tell you what, Alic, those old ways followed your father to the grave. But, I suppose you may swear your sword to me.” Bavol chuckled, “I promise to be a fair lord to you, given you keep my arse clean enough.”
“This is no joke, Brother, “Alic used the nomenclature of their Order in an attempt to stamp out the spark of his sarcasm, “We have been tossed away and forgotten. The gods only know where the rest of our order are or what they are doing in this new land still calling its self Pelmyre.”
Bavol bowed his head in defeat for the umpteenth time that day. Clearly his comrade would not take to his jokes. He knew from their years together when Alic was not in a mood to be cheered. “Listen, Brother. What has happened has happened. There is no changing the past. It has been twenty three years now since those cursed cloaked things landed in Pelmyre. If the people were going to deny their new way, they would have done long ago. All we can do now is take the blows we are dealt, just as we did while training, and wait for an opportunity to do better.”
Alic knew he was right, but he did not like the idea of taking things lying down. He was even more disappointed to hear this coming from his dear friend, who was usually more bull-headed than himself. So what if the “Bringers of Light” were so popular now because of their machines and magics? Sure, they could send flying all manner of flames, dusts, and heavy iron projectiles, but could they cleave a man in twain with a single stroke of a steel sword? Of course not! They were men thin as saplings! However mysterious they may be beneath those white cloaks, it would not compensate for an obvious lack of strength required in close combat. What did they know of war? These foreigners chose to spill blood from a distance so as not to stain crimson their snow white garb. This craven mentality infuriated Alic. These thoughts had rekindled the fire in his belly anew, and with this fire he intended to fuel his next string of arguments. But as soon as Alic opened his mouth to speak, his friend shushed him with a hand raised as though to block the oncoming torrent of words. Alic was taken aback and slightly offended until he realized that Bavol wasn’t even looking at him, but staring out the filth-glazed window. Following his gaze, Alic saw that his environment had again changed without him even noticing. Out in the square, a large group of people was gathering excitedly. He wondered now, how he had not noticed the cacophony of sound coming from the mob.
Alic and Bavol looked at one another a moment before wordlessly rising to their feet and making for the door. Alic, being the closest, made it into the small space first. But, no sooner had he taken a few steps from the pub before he was struck bodily from his right side and nearly fell onto the cobbled ground. His combat reflexes took over momentarily and he assumed a low stance and faced his attacker. However, his assailant had fallen to the ground herself. Herself. Alic relaxed a little, realizing that he was in no danger from this clumsy woman. He stepped forward and offered a hand to help her up.
Once she was back on her feet, Alic was better able to see her. The woman had long, red hair and eyes as intensely green as his own. She was wearing a deep blue dress that probably appeared much finer without a strip torn from it and dirt streaked across the side as there now was. Even with this and the knowledge that she was none too graceful, Alic could not help taking in her face. The small, upturned nose, flushed cheeks, and soft curve of her neck. He was staring. Alic blinked himself out of his stupor. He realized that he was still standing holding her hand. She’d even rested her other hand across his forearm almost intimately. He broke away awkwardly, worried about the impression he was giving and conscience of Bavol watching from a short distance, no doubt wearing his usual smirk.
“I am so sorry, sir! It was my fault. I was in a hurry to see it and not watching where I was going!”
“No need to worry. Conveniently enough, I’m wearing armor. You, however, seem to have been less fortunate and your dress looks to have suffered for it.”
“Oh no. It is no problem. I have others, albeit not in this color. But now I’ve an excuse to buy a new one.” She smiled at Alic, who had no response but a continuation of his spellbound staring, “Well” she continued, “I really am sure I do not want to miss this, so I will be going. Again, I am very sorry.”
Alic blinked and she was gone. He hadn’t even noticed her walk away, but was just able to see her ruined blue skirts disappear into the crowd. Had she just looked back at him?
Bavol cleared his throat at an unnecessary volume, “Well! If you are done, my friend, I’d like to see what it is that interrupted my evening drink.”
“Aye,” Alic felt himself flush, but chose to ignore it. He turned and walked away, forcing his large friend to follow him into the thick mass of people. Alic weaved through the crowd like a needle tracing thread through cloth. He could hear Bavol behind him choosing a more direct method of getting through. Surprised shouts and empty challenges erupted as the muscled knight pushed his way through. After only a few yards, the two men reached the front of the crowd. Alic heard a few dirty men grumble their discontent at having to look around Bavol.
The crowd was not encircling something as Alic had originally assumed, but instead were tracing the narrow road that crossed the square from East to West. He had gotten there just in time to see the focus of so much attention as it began crossing in front of him. Two dark ponies were pulling a low cart behind them. The haul was covered by a large sheet composed of a variety of colored cloths all stitched together. The object beneath that sheet was an indiscernible, massive lumpy shape about six feet high from the base of the cart and seemed to fill the entirety of it. The foremost left wheel was directly in front of Alic. He watched that wheel for a moment as it turned, wobbling and creaking on its axel. The mysterious object was not the only thing that had attracted this crowd, however. In fact, it was probably only the second most interesting thing moving across that square. The Bringers of Light positioned themselves with one man at each wheel of the cart, one walking just ahead of the ponies, and the final one bringing up the rear. The crowd may, in fact, have been drawn by the pungent floral aroma that emanated from the strangers. Alic felt almost choked by the perfume.
Alic looked up now to see one of the six cloaked men escorting the heavy cargo. The one nearest him now was directly behind the rear left wheel and, as with his five brethren, was covered head to toe in stark white robes. Their ensemble even included a white hood and black scarves or strips of cloth wrapped around the heads beneath. As the distance closed between them, Alic saw that the individual approaching him was about half a head shorter than himself. Alic was no giant, but this man was certainly not much taller than an average dwarf.
Alic tried to catch the coward’s eye but, naturally, the figure stared straight ahead. Almost lazily. Being denied his righteous, though non-verbal, confrontation, the knight watched disinterestedly as the cart trundled along in front of him. He noticed again, how loud all the surrounding people were. They talked excitedly amongst themselves. Children ran through the forest of legs playing and squealing loudly with delight. Alic’s head began to ache. Soon enough, the cart was almost out of the square and there was only one more of the short men for Alic to stare daggers at. Almost instantly, his gaze was met with equal intensity. Large, round eyes looked back at him from a narrow field of black. Alic could tell that there was some meaning in this foreigner’s penetrating stare, but he could not discern what exactly it was. Was he returning the rage and hate that was being delivered to him by Alic? Was he trying to communicate some desperate message without the benefit of speech? Then the moment had passed. The stranger faced forward again and continued moving away.
Before Alic could think much more on the matter, he noticed another pair of eyes looking his way around the low, white figure. Green eyes. The same young girl that had nearly toppled him moments ago was on the opposite side of the rolling spectacle, framed by a dark alleyway. The girl looked into his eyes intensely for a long moment then averted her gaze and blushed deeply as if embarrassed. A pale, thin hand reached out of the alley behind the girl and clamped its self over her mouth. Two more hands grabbed her arms and drew her into the narrow space. Alic threw himself against the crowd in his way, tried to call out. But she was soon swallowed up by the inky darkness inside.
Alic felt panicked. He was a knight of Pelmyre and it was his duty to protect the citizens of his country, even if those same citizens no longer had faith in knights. He glanced around, suddenly remembering his friend. Unfortunately, even Bavol was unable to resist the current of the milling crowd, evident by his head poking out several yards away. He was still watching the suspicious wagon leave the square. Alic had no time to retrieve Bavol and he would not be heard over the people of Rikit. Alic turned and began shoving his way toward the alley alone. The stinking mass of people were breaking ranks and spreading to vacate the square now that their momentary novel distraction from life had rolled away.