The Fall of Arnon

Chapter 2

"I said rip his heart out!" The old king's voice wavered down through the stone hall into the ears of the quivering manservant. His white, clammy hand shivered, causing the silver platter in his hands to clatter to the floor.

"What do you think you are doing?" Once more anger found its way into the flabby lips of the ancient man.  He surveyed the quaking form of the servant, disgust written across his white, wrinkled, face. "Get out!" Spit cascaded from his mouth in a shower of foamy raindrops. The servant moved quickly to retrieve the object of offense and scurried from the room.

The wide expanse echoed with every movement made. Walls of stone that had become the stuff of legends, passed through centuries of war and peace. Painted canvases cried out in reverence to kings long dead. Tapestries faded along with the stories they told, and in the face of it all one wooden chair stood proudly displaying one king after another. Its cloth grew worn, its wood lost its shine, but always it rose above the great hall demanding the respect of the peasants far below.

"We cannot simply execute a man with no crime done, your majesty." Another voice rang out through the listening stones. It came from a large man. His large stature spoke of a life of determination and courage to come to this position. The lines streaked across his face testified to years of knowledge and wisdom overflowing through his calculating eyes. He wore a soldiers tunic, the emblem of a dragon emblazoned upon his breast.

The king's eyes pierced through the icy coldness of his face. His next words were quietly threatening. "What are you saying, Sir Ryan?" He begged the man to slip up, to show some chink in his carefully wrought armor.

"I am simply saying, your majesty," he chose his words carefully. "That you may lose respect from your people if you act in a manner not befitting a king."

"You believe I act in a manner unbecoming to my station," the king queried, tentatively.

"Some discussion may be required, sir." The old knight spoke without emotion, only judicious logic.

The king fell into a thoughtful silence, his fingers bowed together against his pear-shaped nose. Jowls moved with every breath, every movement. His sizable belly perched on his golden-trousered hips, pushing him deeper into the violet cushion beneath his large backside. Finally, he fell back against the pillows gracing the aged throne and closed his eyes.

The two men standing before him knew by instinct that they had been dismissed rather unceremoniously and turned to face the double doors staunchly guarding the entrance to the Hall of Kings. Old carvings wrought into their thousand-year-old boughs told poems and songs of daring deeds every young child knew from bedtime stories passed down through the generations.

From this room, the companions came to a long hall stretched before them like a chasm. The knight turned to the man at his side. "His rash decisions will only lead to an uprising."

The man stayed silent.

"He does not know what he does," he stated, frustrated. They passed a picture of a knight, piercing grey eyes and a determined smile completed his war-hardened look. Around him, painted in their own right were the three symbols of knighthood. The sword for courage, the flower for peace, and the stone for steadfastness.

His friend finally spoke. "Perhaps he does." His voice was low, raspy, and kind. He looked to the knight. "You do not yet know what he does."

"Yes, I do," said Sir Ryan. "He insights events that will lead to only death and destruction."

His companion stopped. His gaze traveled to a picture. Its frame was of a golden hue, melted into a series of swirls. Its painter had been one of the greatest the country of Arnon had ever known. The strokes fell in a pattern so compelling one could not but stop and look at its enticing glow. Time had granted it a place of honor among others of its fame.

Many fables surrounded the old man ensconced forever in its colored lines, but none so popular as his last battle.

With one feeble hand, the man traced his finger along the other man's face. "They say he died protecting the land from an army so mighty, men would fall dead in fear of their approach," he stated before shrugging and passing on.

"Yes, so they say," Ryan nodded. "Yet, something tells me it has been exaggerated over time."

"All stories are exaggerated, but perhaps it is up to us to find the truth." He swept around the corner, his long priestly robes wafting behind him.

Sir Ryan stayed back. With his head shaking in silent amusement, he thought back to when the sterling young knight had met the even younger pietistic priest. It was the first year of his knighthood, and he had been sent as a messenger to the fiefdom ruled over by Sir Willand. He was returning from his long journey when he spotted a brown, mottled, brown cloak striding confidently along the side of the road.

The puckered red face of the boy met his greeting with a jolly smile and a hearty, "God bless you, Sir Knight!" The joy in his face and the holes in his cloak seemed strangely incongruent to the young knight. He scrunched his face in consternation. He knew the right thing to do would be to give the kind young man a ride to whatever place he was on his way to, but the pride in his heart had despised the thought of carrying him on his newly acquired stallion. However, it was not God's plan for him that day to carry on his lonely way, and together they rode into the city of Arnon.

From there they struck up the strangest friendship the city had ever seen. In most ways, they differed completely, but that had done little to sour their friendship. A man of God and a man of the world, a man of the sword and a man of the book, it seemed like there was always some new morsel of wisdom to be gained from the other. But, it was so much more than just a friendship of convenience, it was a friendship of love. A friendship built upon the cornerstone of the willingness to lay down one's life for another.

With a spry step, the old knight traced the path of his friend. Knights down through the ages gazed down at him with unmoving, knowing eyes.