"And in those days the young men of the Evindel kingdoms did seek out to Quest to the Holy Land, the ancient home of Joachin Hristus, in an effort to push the Manadim from their desert fortresses. For the Jebusin priests of their homelands, caught up in the religious zeal of their orders, did declare to the nobles and the elite of the kingdoms that the People of the Prophet were desecrating the Holy Land with their heretic ways. If the land was to be forever preserved in sanctity, those that sullied its sacred sands needed to be driven back, by force of arms if necessary.
So the kings of Evindelian Ristusia, unified in their desire to see the Holy Land of Ebrahin cleansed of the unwashed Naraban masses, sent out the call for knights to join them in a Quest to the Holy Land of Ebrahin. And, blessed by the Jebusin of their individual lands, the knights did come. From far and wide they came, lone knights on horseback, great legions from the dedicated Orders Militant of the Church of the One God, knights both lowborn and high. All to join the Holy Quest, all come in the name of the One God to battle the Heathen threat of the Manadim. And their path was blessed by the One God."
- from the writings of Horris, High Historian to His Majesty, Lord of the Silver Forest, Master of the Kellen Marches and Protector of the Church, King Frederik of Germanse
* * * *
The waters of the Straits of Hybernus swirled uneasily as the lowered clouds in the sky overhead threatened yet another downpour, their bellies dark gray and full of cold, stinging sleet and rain. It wouldn't take more than a nudge from the biting winds to make those clouds empty onto the steel gray waters of the Strait and even less to force the clouds to yield up their watery horde over the damp and water-logged coasts of western Gaul.
Here and there dim light penetrated the thick layer of cloud to spread its watery illumination over the broken Noran beach of crumbling shale and water-washed gravel that laid at the base of a water-logged ridge of low hills, sparsely vegetated and looking rather forlorn and beaten. And darting through that light, wings held wide, were solitary gulls, keen vision searching the ground and water below for something to eat. Fall or no, storm or fair, the coastal birds had to forage or face death. It was Nature, the great circle of Life.
However, no such concept was going through one bird's mind as it turned to the west, eyes searching the unsettled waves below. In fact nothing occupied its mind, if it had one at all. It was the hunger in its belly that consumed its consideration almost completely. Instinct guided the movements of its long, slender wings to keep it aloft despite the wind and it ignored the smattering of rain that touched it now and again at its height above the wave tops. All it cared about was finding some food.
Thus some movement at the threshold of the beach below, where the sea met the land, rapidly captured its attention. Could it be some crab, mistakenly seeking shelter amongst the pebbles and rocks of the beach? Or an injured fish, cast up by the relenting waves to lay gasping its last on alien land?
Swiftly the gull wheeled lower, watching the movement intently as it dropped closer. This could be the meal that it was looking for. But, as the movement resolved itself into actual figures, the seabird pulled away in disappointment. Whatever they were, they didn't resemble anything worth eating!
As the gull and several of its companions, also attracted by the movement, turned away to again soar skyward, two figures emerged from the choppy sea, one dragging the other laboriously behind it before both fell onto the cold gravel, still half in the frigid water.
But the figures didn't remain in the surf for long. With a groan of effort, one staggered to its feet before reaching down to take the other by the collar. Then, teeth grit with determination, the first dragged the second the rest of the way onto the beach, chains still binding the body's hands and feet as the water-smoothed stones clunked softly with the weight of the limp body being dragged roughly over them. There, satisfied that they had come far enough, the first released its hold to stand, chest heaving, as it struggled to catch its breath.
Only then could it be seen that the standing figure was a man, lean yet muscular in a wiry sense of the word. The man tilted his head back, eyes closed as cold seawater slowly trickled down his chest and over his belly, dripping liberally from the bottom of his tattered breech legs. His shirt, or what was left of it, was plastered to his shoulders and back with the water and his medium length red hair was nearly black with water. Water dripped from his hair onto the gravel at his feet, which were bare.
Slowly the pale skin, tinted blue from the cold, shed its watery cover. And just as slowly the man's chest expanded then contracted, life-giving air being pulled into his exhausted body with each breath. He stood as if unaffected by either his submersion in the frigid water, or the cold wind that was lashing the beach with icy fingers. He was a statue in flesh-tone marble, almost unmoving.
Abruptly his eyes flickered open, pale blue, the color of the sky, when he heard something heavy and metal grind against the rounded stones of the beach. He remained perfectly still as he let his hearing, extraordinarily sharp, seek out the source of the sound. There. A good twenty metres down the beach to the south. But rapidly approaching.
The lean young man brought his head down to focus on the approaching figures, at least two dozen men on horseback, looking oddly bulky in their perches on top of the heavy chargers. Further study told him their bodies must be encased in armor of some sort to give them that kind of appearance. It was a conclusion supported by flashes of silver visible beneath heavy cloaks and thick surcoats as the winds of passage moved them, as well as the cylindrical helms they wore on their heads.
Upon catching sight of them, anger suddenly surged through the man, hot and vicious, burning away any trace of exhaustion and the cold. Fear was forever gone, leached away by the chill waters of the Hybernus.
Then, the muscles of his jaw rippling with the effort, he crushed the anger and forced himself to be calm. If the need arose, he would attack. But only if he was attacked first or these men made an attempt to capture them. He wouldn't rush blindly forward again and sacrifice himself needlessly. Nor, by the hot ash that gave birth to him, would he ever be captured and held prisoner again! The cold of the Strait had forced him to make that vow and now he intended to keep it, even if it meant his own death.
So he mutely waited for the men to reach him, their heavy armor gleaming dully in the light that managed to penetrate the thick clouds overhead to splash weakly against the land below. He didn't have to wait long. The first man reached him in a manner of heartbeats, his horse, a powerful, thick-chested roan charger, kicking up gravel as it came to an abrupt stop.
Throwing the young man a hard, suspicious look through the visor of his large, cylindrical helmet as he climbed down off his mount, the man in full armor in a surcoat of black and red with an unfamiliar crest on his chest drew the arming sword at his waist with a practiced pull and brought it to the ready. He then said something in a hard, angular-sounding language.
When the young man failed to respond to that, he switched to something that was less harsh, almost like the Ibisian the jebusin would use between each other. When that too failed to elicit any reaction, the man shook his head in frustration before:
"Who are you?" he demanded in heavily accented Anglo. "What are you doing here?"
Other than a slight narrowing of the man's eyes, he still didn't respond. That, in turn, earned him a more aggressive approach from the armored man.
"Are you deaf, fool?" he shouted, staying with Anglo since he saw the young man's eyes narrow in reaction to it. As he shouted, he dropped into a combat crouch.
"I said ..."
"I heard you," the man finally said, his words touched by a strange, soft slur and rolled 'r's' as they interrupted the armored man's words.
"Then answer me, boy! What are you doing here?"
"You're no lord over me," the man flatly pointed out. "I owe you no explanation."
The armored man sputtered in disbelief and anger at that. How dare this half naked peasant speak to him like that!
"I'll have your answer, boy, and your respect," he snarled as he began to step forward. "On your knees! Or I'll cut you down!"
The young man watched the armored fellow advance a step or two, his metal-shod boots grinding against the smooth gravel, without expression. Then, slowly and carefully, he stepped over the unmoving form at his feet to stand protectively above it.
By this point the others on horseback were nearly upon them, a fact that didn't escape the young man. He was about to be outnumbered, and badly. Realizing this, he brought up his fists.
"Come then, tyrant," he hissed. "You'll find me ready!"
Growling, the armored man charged the remaining few paces, sword ready. And when he was close enough, he swung hard, aiming for the young man's head. Only to find his blade whistling through empty air.
Before he had time to be astonished, however, a battering ram of a blow cranked off the side of his helm, instantly rendering him senseless. He managed a pair of running steps past the young man thanks in great part to momentum before he staggered then dropped unevenly to the gravel. Where he slid to an awkward stop, head ringing.
The young man turned enough to watch the armored man tumble to the ground. Then he was returning his attention to the rest of his comrades, now arriving on horseback along with a fair number of uniformed soldiers on foot. As the first one had, they quickly slipped out of their saddles and pulled free their arming swords before, almost as one group, they charged forward.
Only to skid to a halt when an unusually large man in armor coming up from behind bellowed from his saddle:
"HOLD!"
The young man watched warily as the big man drew his mount up beside the others before one of the soldiers stepped forward to take his reins. Then, despite his size, he easily climbed out of the saddle and began to stomp towards them.
"In the king's name, sheath your weapons!" he growled, sounding more bear than man, Pulling off metal-backed gloves, which he tucked into his belt, he then removed his helm, handing it to another soldier that had followed him. In doing so, he was revealed as a scarred, craggy-faced man with bushy eyebrows and thick,dark hair, a trimmed beard and hard, brown eyes. Over his armor he wore a surcoat of black and green, with a double-headed eagle crest on the chest.
As the newcomer saw the young man look at him, he held up his massive hands in a gesture of peace as the other armored men reluctantly began to sheath their swords.
"You'll have to forgive my more enthusiastic comrades," the big man said, his Anglo touched by the slightest hint of an accent. "They charge before knowing the conditions of battle."
"So I noticed," the young man replied without changing his ready posture.
Hearing the wary note in the young man's voice, the big man let his hands drop. Wary, not angry or threatening; that eased the danger this unexpected visit posed by a significant margin!
"I am Sir Larent, a knight in King Frederik of Germanse's service," he carefully introduced himself. "You've landed a mere couple of kilometers from the perimeter of one of Frederik's Questor camps, which attracted the notice of these good knights behind me, out exercising their mounts."
Despite himself, the young man frowned in momentary confusion.
"What's a questor camp?"
"Have you not heard, boy?" another one of the knights asked, his Anglo also accented. "The high kings of Ristusian Evindel have summoned all able-bodied men together to build a grand army with intent to free the Holy Land from the infidel Manadim!"
"Aye," another chimed in to say. "Their quest has been blessed by the Holy Pade herself! The home of Joachin Hristus will be ours once again!"
Having let the other knights speak for a moment, Larent returned his attention to the pale-skinned stranger, holding up a hand to command the others back into silence.
"A questor camp is where some of those summoned faithful gather, to begin their training and to prepare for the journey," he explained after the quiet was restored. When the stranger didn't respond to that, his expression changing from confused back to neutral, Larent frowned.
"Surely you've heard of the summons, lad," he pressed. "Notices went to every corner of Ristusian Evindel!"
The young man's eyes narrowed once more at that.
"I'm not from Evindel," he flatly announced.
"Not from ...?" Larent's voice trailed off as he found his eyes moving of their own accord to the west and the unsettled waters of the Strait of Hybernus.
"Hristus's beard! You're Hybernian!" he exclaimed, the realization washing over his mind in a surge. It explained the accent, the pale skin and the red hair. From what he'd read, those were characteristics of a northern Hybernian people called the Ekoss, pagans that the jebusin were currently trying to subdue and convert. In all his long years on the earth, he hadn't seen one in the flesh until this very day!
Then he was pushing aside his astonishment.
"You're Ekossan," he said and the young man, after the slightest hesitation, nodded almost imperceptibly. "You're a rare breed around these parts, lad. Ekossans aren't known for leaving their northern Hybernian lands. A slave, then?"
"I'm no slave," the young man declared. "And I've no interest in your king's quest. So, if there's nothing else ..." He made to pick up his friend. Only to pause when Larent held up his hands once more.
"Forgive me, lad," he began as the young man looked up at him with a frown. "As a pagan, I understand why a Ristusian quest would hold no value for you. But duty dictates that I take you back to the camp, so you can reassure my king you aren't a spy for the Manadim."
The young man frowned. The Manadim? What were those?? Were they people? These men in metal seemed to use the word as if describing a group of people, if he were any judge of such things. Then the big man speaking again recaptured his attention.
"If you do come with us peacefully, I give you my pledge you'll be safe," Larent reassured him with a smile. "I'll also see you clothed and fed, and your fallen friend there, taken care of."
The young man dropped his eyes onto his fallen companion for a brief moment. Chilled to the bone, food and clothing sounded real good right now, especially with his exhaustion creeping back in now that things had calmed down a bit. And if his friend was indeed too far gone to save, a proper burial would be appropriate.
"Very well," he finally said after a long, thoughtful pause to consider Larent's offer. "I accept your offer of aid." He looked over at the knight that had attacked him, only now being helped to his feet by a number of the uniformed soldiers. The man was still shaky, barely able to stand even with the help of the soldiers.
"But if I feel threatened in any way, you've already seen what I can do," he finished, spearing Larent with a hard look. To which the big knight quickly nodded.
"Indeed we've borne witness, lad," Larent added. "Come. Let's get you out of this cold and into some dry clothes!" A gesture pulled the soldiers hanging back at the horses forward to step around Larent and, after a quick look at first Larent then the young man that got the pale-skinned Ekossan to step back, bend down to take hold of the unmoving body on the ground.
The cold waters of the Strait must've acted to preserve the body; as the soldiers hoisted it to their shoulders, it hung loosely as if recently deceased, with no apparent rigor in any of the limbs. That done, their leader, a sergeant if he was to go by the stripes on his uniform sleeve, looked back over at Larent.
"Your wish, my lord?" he asked in a rough, gravelly voice, his Anglo unaccented as he tugged respectfully at his forelock.
"The lad has agreed to come with us if we help bury his friend," the big knight rumbled. "Take the body back to camp and have Master Henri take a look at him to see if we can determine what killed him. Call a blacksmith as well to remove those chains. And advise Father Confessor Malkom to prepare to give the man last rites."
Larent paused there to look over at the frowning Ekossan.
"Unless your friend was a pagan as well," he said. The man shrugged.
"I don't think so," he admitted. "But, then again, I only knew him for a short time!"
Larent nodded his understanding before turning back to the sergeant.
"We'll leave it at that, then, sergeant. On your way."
"My lord," the grizzled non-commissioned officer responded with a second tug of his forelock. Then he was directing his men to carry the body towards the low hills to the east of the beach.
That task done, the big knight turned back to the Ekossan stranger.
"Now, my young friend, will you accompany a handful of my soldiers into camp? They will see to your provisioning."
The young man gazed at him for a long moment. But, just when the big knight started to think he would refuse, he nodded. Hiding his sigh of relief, he motioned for more soldiers.
Not reacting to the knot of soldiers that formed around him, the man solemnly and silently let the soldiers lead him away, marching in time with them as they passed through the assembled men in armor, leaving them frowning in thought as they watched them go.