{70}

Upon a rustic evergladed hillock, shaded by a stable and a sturdy Castle, the chaste Knyghte, and his now fair fiancée, the virgin did reside.  But  where once a shapely helm did mightily crown, now a troubled frown did weightily sit upon the Knyghte’s brow.  For though betrothed they be, and the marriage nearly moulded;  what the Knyghte's downcast looks foretold, was that he had been cuckolded!

Now restless ran his fears, like the shadow of a Dragon below his mind.  A flagon-score of Beers, a drunken brawl, oh how the mighty Knyghte did fall before the jeers of the crowd.  Forlorn he then did wander, his moral world from him ripped asunder.  From his body torn and shredded was the noble doublet of his Duke, for on it smeared was mud and beer, streaks of punch-blood, and wine-puke.

Then gathered he his last shattered pieces of hope:  his once heroic cry of words and favourite phrases.  Together with what little glimmer left in his defeated body;  the last drab pieces of his spirit crawled out into the wilderness of war to fight and win.  Or die.

{71}

Though I have won many victories, I still feel vanquished, deep in the calm-within that knows:  you are only as victorious as your next struggle.  On this battlefield I alone stand, a blunted sword in one hand, an acquired dagger in the other.  My great helm has long since deserted me, inspired by the halbard of a Gargoyle.  The nauseating stench of Gargoyle-death enshrouds my being.  The blackness of their blood has made the scarlet emblem on my armour indistinct.  Mud hides the crimson flows of my blood.

Indeed, no more have I cause.  No more am I a valiant knyghte slaying the hoards of evil.  Though my body barely lingers, my soul has long since floundered blind in the death surrounds me.  I am bringer of pain, bearer of messages moribund.

What hole of torment could possibly have spewed forth this vile race of creatures?  Yet, despite their vulgarity, my foe are respectful opponents.  Driven by fears that no human could ever know, they impale themselves on my weapons, again and again, and inside I weep for I now seem to feel more affinity to these valiant and vulgar creatures of darkness, than I do for those of my kind that sit comfortable by full fires, lulled with warm bellies.

My legion deserted me in battle and, had the blood-lust not been upon me, I would have deserted too.  But now I stand, amidst stench and death and Gargoyle-blood.  I notice a patch of red, and see the unmoving face of one of my fallen comrades.  I feel nothing for him, but instead focus on the features of the Gargoyle that lies half across his corpse.  A grotesque glee of victory and glory lies forever smitten in his eyes, bleak and cold like his blood.

The opening of a wound on this still life, faces up to me.  I touch with my hand, then rub.  The temperature of his blood has been raised by the mild coolness in the air.  Because a living Gargoyle has blood near the temperature of freezing water, I estimate he has been dead most of the day.

I pluck the crest from the dead human beneath the Gargoyle, and wipe the grey mud from it.  Red and white, the colours of life and purity reveal themselves to me.  This was one that died before the rest deserted.  I cannot look at his face again in fear that I will recognise the life that once breathed through it;  instead I notice how the fangs of the Gargoyle lie embedded in his torso.  They died together, these two - but now their souls rest far apart.  The noble warrior to Valhalla;  the Gargoyle - forever in the torments of Tarterus.

All around me, the warm vapour of my kind lifts itself invisibly above the black gas that has begun to gather around the dead of the Gargoyles.  If someone does not burn these carcasses soon, the countryside for miles around will begin to wither and die.  Already their putrid smell makes my eyes sting and water.

No...  No more can I return to my birth-land.  What I have seen takes me beyond the friendly picket fences of my youth.  But I must now fight on 'til I die.  Never can I turn back, for I am a Paladin, server of righteousness and

justice;  bringer of death to the masses of evil-Gargoyles that swarm the countryside and destroy all that is joyful, harmonious... beautiful.  Though my cause is just, my heart now is pure no more.  Stained with the blood of my foes, I must go on.  Only death can redeem me now.

I feel somewhat lifted as I cling to those words of sanity:  Justice.  Righteousness.  The good cause.  I look afar and the presence of death strikes me down once more.  “For the High King of the South!”  How those words confuse me, ringing once with proud valour, now all that they invoke is the hollow echo of hopelessness.

A tattered flag flaps half-heartedly against the wind.  Black its bearing, but stained with red blood.  Or is that a red flag with black blood?  I cannot tell, nor care to.  My body convulses and I vomit thick, brown coagulated blood.  Then collapse.

I am roused by the too familiar sound of metal, and see a small band of  Gargoyles flapping along on the enormous bat-like wings.  They pick their way through the corpses and carcasses.  Spineless I wriggle underneath death.  Strange, how after serving death to many, now the remains of those dead offer me a chance to save my own life.

Once again I am awoken, but this time by a sharp crack across my spine.  I remain limp.  Again the crack, and soon I am being dragged out from my nest of lifeless twigs.  A cold shiver races through me, and suddenly the years of training take control.  Detached I feel my body jump and grab the nearest object.  I break the thin spear over the closest Gargoyle and he jumps back more in surprise than pain.  This gives me enough  time to launch its broken shaft through his body.  His screams are lost and meaningless within the multitude of others I have heard. 

He falls, and just before he hits the ground I have his axe. Within moments I gauge it’s weight as good but top heavy, as most Gargoyles weapons are:  prone to be inaccurate, but lethal when they strike. The clean blade rives through his feeble armour and tougher skin, but my soul feels not his death throe.  And so too I do not at first feel any pain as a spear ::-:----- pierces through my back and out my chest.  Only after turning and neatly parting the next Gargoyle and his mindless head, do I feel the pain.  I am fascinated by this latest phenomenon, I cannot remember the last time I felt real pain.  But soon the cold agony subsides and my body feels strangely warm.

I stumble, yet keep my feet.  I know now I have battled my last.  I fall over backwards but the long shaft of the spear finds ground and holds me obscurely upright to die.  I have heard rumours of our proud Southern lands electing a High King to lead them to battle against the foe.  If this be so then may his spirit ride bold, for no longer am I his comrade.

My limbs feel weightless as they seem to wave in the breeze, and then I feel a gentle tug on each arm.  I look to either side of me, and see women  with swords and breastplates and wings of shining blue-silver.  They uplift me.  I reach down to grab my axe  - and they stop my arm.  No more will I need a weapon.  No more shall I slay.  No more shall I fear.  I am finally victorious in my death, for now I have conquered war.

I have served my cause.  My will has kept true, though my body has deserted me.  I feel strength and warmth burst through my being, and no more am I held but only lightly tethered to the Valkyries that now fly an hundred strong on either side.  Before me lies Valhalla where my friends await.  Aye, and many of my foes.  But here we will battle no more.  Now we will feast and sing and be jolly, perhaps after a time, in grave moments we will recall our wars.  But will they be told with both honour and glory?

That matters not for this place feels safe.  Death belongs me, , , and so I can never die again, , ,

so savour the first sweet moments of eternal respite.