The Fall of Arnon

Chapter 24

Sir Ryan felt his hair bristle and his horse gave a whinny dancing beneath him in unease. He stared into the ever-darkening abyss before him and felt a shiver bubble through him. Cold water drenched them to the bone, but Sir Ryan could still feel his senses tingling within him.

Amid the pounding of the rain, little could be heard, and even less could be seen. But, in his soul, he could feel it. The same clammy fear he had felt that night now clutched at his heart. Through the sheet of grey, he could barely make out the tiny form of Televtale clutching the skins around him Sir Ryan had brought for just such an occasion.

"We go on foot from here!" Sir Ryan yelled into the blinding force of the rain. Televtale nodded and disappeared over the side of his horse. Sir Ryan's cloak fell around him, pulling him down deep into the mud. He grunted angrily as his horse frantically pushed up against him. The rain had not only drenched his clothing, but his nerves were beginning to come to a breaking point.

He trudged forward, hoping beyond hope he had not come this far to find it had all merely been a dream and nothing more. He glanced behind him to see the boy following him.

They had only gone about half a mile when something too tall and too dark to be anything else but the Forest of Othelio loomed up ahead of them. "Thank God," Sir Ryan said. He bowed his head and pushed hard against the driving wind, hoping to find shelter in the drooping boughs of the almost heavenly looking place.

They reached the edge of the woods and as soon as their feet felt the solid earth beneath them, the world around them changed. The wind took to moaning far behind them, the rain no longer bit through their skin like driven nails, and the fear of death by freezing alone on the wide-open prairie was replaced by an all-too-real fear of the unseen.

Televtale squinted into the darkness and for a moment he thought, they both might go in and never return again to the sunlit earth. But, Sir Ryan appeared to have none of the same apprehensions as him. He set his face towards their inevitable demise and stalked off. Televtale had no choice but to follow. With a tilt of his own chin and a shaky swing in his stride, he set off behind him.

The underbrush tore at his tender skin causing Televtale to wince at the pain that shot up his leg. Every once in a while a branch would shoot back, slapping him harshly on the face. The relief he had felt when the rain had finally subsided was replaced by the blood now dripping from various wounds along his body.

His legs moved on their own as his mind wandered back to his home. It was so long ago that he had lived a life worthy of being called such, he could barely remember a time he had felt happiness. Three long months had come and gone since he had been left to rot in the dungeons of the Castle of Arnon. Walls of rock and stone had left his soul bare. His family had rejected him the moment he had been sentenced for his deeds of insurrection. It had only been a whispered word spoken in private, but it had ended everything he had once known of life.

Rolling fields of flowers, dancing waves along the seashore, a hearty sea shanty sung through the angry howling of the winds on a cold winter's night were all things he had forgotten in his time preparing for his death at the end of the lifeless, cold edge of an executioner's ax.

Now, there was hope for him. Now, he could dream of a more glorious death on the field of battle staining the grass red where so many before him had died. He knew he would never again hear his mother's tinkling voice sing the old folk songs or hear his father recite his endless repartee of stories to the anxious little ears of his young brother and sister, but life had thrown him a line, and he wasn't about to let it go.

It was in the midst of his reminisces that he was caught by surprise when he walked face first into the staunch back of his compatriot. He jumped back and was making his prostrations to the unmoving wall that was Sir Ryan when he saw he was being rudely ignored. He turned to follow the unwavering stare, and there in the midst of the bleak, misty forest, color burst through the drowsy limbs.

Vibrant shades of blue, green, red, yellow shot through the blackened leaves. He looked down and the ground around him shone with the most beautiful green. Each blade of grass stood alone in its beauty, pure and undefiled, yet somehow they all blended together in one long paint stroke.

A cottage of a soft white hue, untouched by the years lay upon a bed of flowers. Shutters of a light brown graced its glistening windows and just a hint of a flowered curtain could be seen peeping through the glass.

"Well, this seems like a nice place. Yes, there is definitely a curse on this place. Let's go." He turned to leave but looked back when he heard no footsteps following him.

"This is it," Sir Ryan nodded at the cozy place of evil.

"Wonderful," Televtale sighed. "This can't go badly."

"Oh, I disagree, I think this can only go badly." Sir Ryan smiled in his direction, threw his horse's bridle over a branch, and sidled over to the door.

Televtale followed in defeat.

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It had begun. Late that night Lerendo had heard something. Amid his bed of furs and silk, the sound had rung out loud and clear. It was the sound of the Arnonian call to battle. His groggy mind struggled to reconcile the sound of cries of "For Arnon!", and for a moment he wondered if he was dreaming. But, it took only a moment more for him to understand that this was no dream. It had come, the pot had finally boiled over in gallons of seething water.

He kicked his feet from under the piles of warmth beneath his blankets, pulled on trousers, a roughly made shirt, and a cloak, and ran to the door. Looking back once more to the warm light flickering from the candle, he said a farewell in his head and was gone.

Down halls and across courtyards, he rushed. Chaos had erupted all throughout the castle. Guards rushed passed him, swords in hand, armor half on, half off. An old woman ran passed him, a long slice of material wafting through the air behind her.

Then, he came, raw and virile, his stride pounding down the hall toward him. "I want more reinforcements along the walls, archers to the ready," he cried. Two towering knights strode alongside him, nodding silently. Then, all went quiet. One man stepped out from the crowd of onlookers. "No," he stated quietly.

"Traitor," the king cried. "Kill him!" He pointed to the man, a rather short and stout looking person.

A man unsheathed his sword, pointing it at the man, but was stopped in his support for justice by steel upon steel. The room stopped. Time itself stopped. Another man, this one much younger than the first stood, eyes blazing angrily at the man at the end of his gaze.

In quiet words, he spoke, "For Arnon," And, lifting his sword, it clashed once more, then found its mark. The blood oozed through the black cloth. One drop splashed on the floor, sending dark red bits flying through the air. One hit Lerendo in the face and he reached up to wipe it off.

And, like a flood, all hell broke loose. "For Arnon!" Was the cry, and from everywhere around him, it was answered by the angry voices of men long wronged by the old, fat man standing only feet from where Lerendo stood.

He turned to look at him, but amid the chaos, he had disappeared, along with the two knights by his side. Through a door, on the side of the room, he saw the disappearing robes of his cowardly father.

He ran through the clash and clamor of the sword upon the sword and the screams of dying men and found himself in a courtyard. He rushed after the three men running across the rocky threshold. Dashing past a very unsuspicious bush, it suddenly threw an arm out in front of his legs. He let out a shriek, less manly than he would have liked. His face hit the hard rock with a concerning bang, and he was hauled unceremoniously into the bushes.

A voice far above him said, "Let him go. Like the holy word says, 'Thy evil deeds will follow thee wherever thou goest,'. The familiar voice caused Lerendo to look up and standing far above him, the moon floating above his head like a halo, stood Father Thomas.