17878265

by David

  The bandit went on, “Well, Razor’s beard is as tough as he is, so the tip o’dat blade broke right off. It broke right off and hit a nearby man square in the eye, it did!”

  “That it did!” squawked another man, who was wearing a patch for his proof. “I can attest to that truth, seein’s how the shard put out me eye.”

  “So,” Loric began impatiently, “what has this story to do with our business negotiations? I really fail to see the point-”

  “The point is this!” growled Razor, drawing his pointless dagger. “Don’t wear Razor’s patience thin, laddie. I put out Patch’s eye on accident,” he threatened, “but I can do far worse things on purpose. So it’s time to pay up, unless you want me to demonstrate....” The lead rogue strode menacingly toward Loric, his face twisted in a fierce grimace. If not for the hint of pleasure in his expression at the thought of harming another human being-- Or is it because of that, Loric secretly wondered--he would have portrayed uncanny likeness to a wild beast. There was a crazed gleam in his eyes.

  Loric tried to hide his uneasiness as he offered, “Very well, Razor. You drive a hard bargain.

  I shall give you my horse, but only my horse.” In response to that, Sunset pricked up his ears and let out a disdainful snort.

  “Is that the best you can do?” asked the outlaw. “I not only feel cheated, but I feel insulted as well. I-”

  Loric stopped Razor short, reassuring him, “All right. You win. You are quite right, you know?”

  “I am?” Razor asked, completely amazed by the unexpected turn his fortune had taken, but only showing mild suspicion of Loric. He made a belated attempt at masking his surprise and agreed, “Of course I am! I’m always right, aren’t I, lads?” There was much laughter at his boast.

  Loric had found something he could use. He further encouraged levity amongst the bandits, yelling, “Of course he is, right?” There was another roar, and Loric joined the merriment.

  “Perhaps you are incorrectly named,” Loric suggested, thereby quieting those men, who suddenly showed signs of distrust. He went on, “You lack a proper title for a man of your station.

  I should knight you Sir Razor!” That brought about a new wave of hysteria amongst the bandits.

  Even Razor was teary-eyed from laughter.

  “Sir Razor, indeed!” shouted an outlaw at the back of the crowd.

  The bandits were doubling over with laughter sufficient to make Loric hold his diaphragm in sympathy.

  The distraction served Loric well. Just as Razor was about to grasp Sunset’s reins, Loric made his move. With a swift, fluid motion, his sword swept upward and crashed down. Its keen edge landed heavily against Razor’s arm, slicing through flesh and bone. The villain screamed in pain, staring helplessly at the stump below his elbow, where his arm had once been whole. Blood gushed from his severed forearm, like wine pouring from a broken cask.

  What happened to Razor after the detached portion of his arm struck the Old King’s Way, Loric could not say. Sunset picked that moment to dart away from the outlaws. The horse nearly threw its young rider from its saddle in its eagerness to be gone from that dangerous gathering.

  By the grace of the Great King, Loric managed to hang on until he was able to regain his balance and take hold of the reins.

  Sunset leaped over the remainder of the hilltop where the bandits had crossed his path. Loric could scarcely discern Razor’s agonized cries from the wild shouts of his outlaw friends or the loud hum of the wind in his ears. He thought one throaty rogue might have hollered, “To the horses! After him!” That call was all Loric needed to hear to know that the pursuit had begun. He lowered his head, pressed his face to the velvety neck of his graceful steed and only friend, Sunset. They clip-tick-clopped across the stone bridge at the Moonbeam Stream with all the speed the stallion’s powerful legs could muster.

  Just above the whistle of wind and pounding of Sunset’s hooves, Loric heard wild cries of pursuing horsemen. Even then, the storm overhead broke. Lightning flashed in the sky, wind howled through trees and rain poured down in a heavy torrent upon horses, riders and forest.

  Sunset did not seem to fear the storm, and neither did Loric have time to acknowledge it. He dared not stop, lest Razor’s fellows should recapture him. He only hoped they would give up their chase with the coming of the downpour. Nevertheless, anxiety told him that was unlikely to happen.

  Loric had just begun to think those bandits had turned back in spite of his misgivings when several riders came bounding over the hill he had just descended. Worse yet, they were gaining on him. He urged Sunset on, “Yah! Yah! Com’n, boy!” It was no use. His pursuers were lightly clothed and unburdened by saddles, bags or armor. He had half a notion to ditch provisions, but that idea came too late. One of the bandits closed on Sunset’s left flank.

  Loric brought his shield up to parry the expected attack, but the villain leaped onto him rather than bringing his weapon into play. The young traveler nearly toppled from his horse in his surprise, but he remained upright nevertheless. The bandit slid onto the saddle behind Loric.

  From there he groped for his throat with greasy, grimy hands. In response, Loric brought the pommel of his sword against the bandit’s knee with a loud crack! He followed his attack with an awkward backhanded shield bash. It was too late to find its mark. The bandit ducked the worst of the blow and grabbed Loric under his shoulder to pin him back.

  The rogue now had the positioning he needed to thrust Loric from the saddle, but he chose against unseating his opponent. Instead, he fumbled at his belt for an unseen weapon. Loric never gave him a chance to find it. He squirmed sideways to unbalance the villain. Then he brought his pommel-loaded fist up to meet his enemy’s face. The ruffian grabbed a handful of Loric’s long thick hair and again fumbled for the hilt of his weapon--a dagger, which was now fully visible to the young traveler from Taeglin. Loric fought back by clamping his teeth down in a hard bite upon the bandit’s grimy wrist. The outlaw writhed in pain, trying desperately to pull away, but his tenacious counter-assailant would not let go, despite the foul taste of dirt, flesh and blood in his mouth. The rogue finally gave a violent tug at his arm, just as his tormentor released his cutting grip to spit away the foul taste of his filth. The fiend tumbled from the saddle, but he grabbed onto Loric’s leg. He hung on for a quarter mile before Loric finally kicked him loose.

  He rolled off the road, bounced down a gully and slammed face first into a tree.

  Loric let out a shout of triumph and righted himself in his saddle. He lowered his head and rode. He had to trust in Sunset and hope that none of the bandits could ride him down before he reached the safe haven of Moonriver Castle.

  That is too far to ride like this, he thought. I will kill Sunset this way, and I will die with him.

  He wondered if it would not be better for him to turn and fight to his glorious end, but the voice of reason warned, You will fight bravely, but you will die a fool.

  Loric was tempted to look over his shoulder until the urge finally overwhelmed him. He was pleased to see that his nearest pursuers were too far off to trouble him for the time being. The closest of Razor’s rabble was still five horse-lengths behind him. However, he was fast closing the gap. The rogue had a spear, which was beginning to stretch out toward Loric in anticipation of reaching killing range. It was drawing nearer with each passing stride.

  From above, rain was pelting Loric. From below, puddles were splashing him. He

  periodically checked the distance separating him from his foe through eyes that were blinking away driving rain. Despite the visual challenge the stinging spray caused him, Loric located his approaching enemy in time to shield his side from the villain’s thrusting spear. It bumped the metal barrier and slid harmlessly to the side. The bandit lagged behind five strides.... then he came again on the other flank. Loric turned his torso sideways to sword parry the many short, jabbing pokes his enemy made at him. The rogue wrapped both hands about the spear and thrust ag
ain with all of his might. Loric struck the weapon’s shaft a mighty blow with his father’s sword. His stroke caught his enemy leaning too far forward in his saddle, and it was forceful enough to turn the spear earthward, where its sharp iron head grabbed a crack between two enormous road stones. The mount of the unfortunate bandit sped on, vaulting him from his saddle.

  Loric watched the difficult landing the villain suffered and laughed wildly. “Hear me, all of Razor’s rabble!” he shouted. “Both my steed and my sword come at a high price.” He offered a final piece of advice to the flying spearman, yelling, “You should watch what you’re doing with that spear, scoundrel!”

  Loric turned his attention back to the road before him. It was none too soon. Sunset was about to hurdle a crate littering the way. While the red stallion soared through his leap, Loric thought, That was close. However, as the steed descended, an overhanging tree branch loomed out of the stormy gray gloom. Loric ducked, but it was too late. The limb caught him full on the crown of his helmet and thrust him from his saddle. He toppled with a painful thump and rolled down the hillside with many a bump and crash.

  Loric lay there for a moment, moaning from the aches in his body. He struggled to get up, but his head was spinning wildly. The battered traveler from Taeglin stubbornly staggered sideways before he fell to the earth with a thud. Everything went black, and he remembered nothing more.

  Chapter Five

  Healing Hands

  Loric awoke with a shout and sat bolt upright. Thunder was rumbling in the air, sending a shiver down his spine. The deafening crack had been part of his vivid dream. Lightning brightened his world, exposed his blurry vision. The dim lantern rattled, as the table beneath it vibrated in unison with the sky. The spray of wind-driven rain against the sides of his canvas shelter intermingled with the steady pitter-patter that came from above him.

  A band of armed outlaws had robbed him of pleasant dreams. In his nightmare, they had stopped him on the road and tried to rob him. Loric had resisted and fled. The villains had pursued him, getting closer and closer to him, until he woke.

  The gaunt faces of those bandits were still clearly visible in his mind. Crooked, yellow teeth with breaks and gaps showed, while sounds of coarse laughter rang in his ears. The

  overpowering odor of unclean bodies lingered in his nostrils. Twisted grimaces and sneers replaced laughter and grins. Loric shivered.

  Was it a dream? Loric wondered. Was it real? Did villains actually pursue me? Loric staggered down that trail of thoughts to his next question, Was I overtaken? If so, what comes next? Certainly, the rogues would have killed me, or at the least, they would have bound me, he decided. Yet there were no cords about his ankles or wrists. Where am I? Loric knew outlaws had chased him. He could not make the fragments of information buzzing inside his head fit a complete and accurate account of what had happened to him, where he was or how he had arrived at that place.

  Loric’s head swam. He tried to make it stop long enough to take in his surroundings. Blurry vision thwarted him. Rubbing his eyes did not bring his hazy world into focus. Loric was beginning to realize that his problem was not an effect of sleepiness or too much sleep when horrendous pain shot through his skull. He cried out and clutched at his temples with trembling hands. The ache between his ears had been with him since waking. The dull boom had steadily intensified to new heights of torture. Loric moaned. His enfeebled body pushed the sound out as a whimper. Why do I feel-? Loric’s thought somehow navigated its way through his tormented cranium, only to be shot down by a dart of piercing anguish before he could complete his question.

  “Lie back,” murmured a lovely voice with a strange accent. “Lie back. You are safe here, but you need your rest.” As the woman spoke, she pressed small, nervous hands to his bare shoulders to ease him down.

  Loric welcomed his caregiver’s voice. It was soothing. The pain in his head seemed to lessen for a moment as the sweetness of her tone tickled his ear. He knew, No harm will come to me as long as I am under the watch of the woman beside me.

  The woman’s words triggered renewal of old queries and new ones besides. Where am I?

  Who now keeps vigil over me? The woman’s speech floated on an accent that was light and airy.

  Where is this maid from? Loric wondered, for her tone did not match the drawl of the local populace. Stabbing pain poked at his mind to punish him for thinking. It persisted with fervor to rival his curiosity.

  Loric wanted to see his caregiver. His desire to get a glimpse of the woman-- no, lady, he decided, judging from her manner of speech alone--who had spoken to him was overpowering, but he dared not lift his lids for fear that the pounding inside his skull would return. He opened his eyes to mere slits, hoping to capture her image for an instant. Throbbing swelled to agony within his aching head. He winced, at last ready to lay aside all thoughts of viewing the lady watching over him.

  Loric relaxed and let his caregiver push him back until his head sank into a makeshift pillow. The sickly traveler longed to know answers to his questions, but his desire to hear that songlike tone fill the air was greater still. There was a knot in his chest and his stomach felt empty. Nevertheless, he tried to speak. His throat was parched and his words issued forth with a crackle. “Where am I?” he croaked in an effort to prompt the lady into speech once more.

  “We are camped a few miles south of Moon River,” the woman answered. Of her own

  volition, she added, “It is amazing you are alive, Sir Stranger.”

  The first statement made Loric’s head hurt, because he had no recollection of where that place was within the wide world. Her additional remark caused him to consider a new series of questions. Most important among them: Who is she? Moreover, by we, had she meant the two of them, or were there others present as well? It is amazing you are still alive, she had said. What had happened to him to cause her to say that? Her use of titles egged on his curious mind. Sir Stranger was indicative that he was a knight, whose name was unknown to her. The word stranger was charged with emotion. Although Loric could not remember its significance to him, it left him downtrodden. Loric teased his memory for answers to his queries, but it was to no avail. He received a torturous headache as reward for his inquisitiveness, whereupon he repeated his previous moan.

  “You should rest,” the lady suggested. “As I understand it, you have had a difficult day.”

  She touched Loric’s forehead, taking great care not to cause him discomfort. The lady whispered something he did not understand, and his pain dissipated. “This is some knot you have earned,”

  she commented. “Had it not been for your helmet, that tree limb probably would have killed you.”

  Tree limb? That should have been significant to Loric, but he could not recall why. He struggled to piece events together. It must have had something to do with the vagabonds who had chased him. He hoped the lady would volunteer more information, but she fell silent once more, leaving Loric’s mind to wander aimlessly to the rain that lashed at the tent.

  The storm, which had seemed so distant only moments before, reminded them of its

  presence with renewed frenzy. A series of bright flashes illuminated the tent. Thunder boomed close by. The rain, although it had lessened for a time, was now unleashed against the temporary shelter. Wind increased in velocity, until it and the droplets riding upon it were tearing at the very fiber of the canvas dwelling. Loric was concerned that the screaming gale would rip up the tent and bear it away. He could not see the woman beside him, but he sensed in her the same fear; an unspoken tension that gripped Loric without physical contact.

  In seeking distraction from the storm, Loric inquired after the answer he was most eager to have, asking, “What is your name, milady?”

  “I am called Avalana,” replied she. “I think that is enough questions for now,” she added firmly, but kindly. “It is time for you to rest.”

  “I am sorry, Avalana,” Loric apologized. His apple was like a dry core in his
throat as he cleared it to add, “I only wished to hear you speak again. Your voice is far sweeter than anything I have ever heard.” The young traveler from Taeglin felt his face warm, but he went on to say,

  “No songbird can match its quality of sound, but as magnificent as it is, it is not as lovely as your name.”

  Avalana giggled. “That is very kind of you to say,” she said indulgently, “but I think you exaggerate. I will excuse your distorted sense of reality, because of the bump on your head.”

  “No, Lady Avalana,” Loric objected. “When I tell you these things, it is not mere

  exaggeration. My injury has not affected my hearing. In truth, your words make my head feel better than the quiet does, as if you can phrase healing into being. When you speak, the sound is as clear as crystal, as bright and bubbly as spring water and yet it is as gentle as dew on the lilies.

  And though the storm outside is fierce, I am reminded of the sun’s warmth when words leap from your tongue.”

  Loric felt fire in his cheeks, sweat on his skin. It was not his way to be so forward. Yet, he felt comfortable in the lady’s presence. Long silence followed Loric’s stream of compliments.

  Loric hung on that desolate precipice, waiting....

  Avalana finally shared, “You speak sweet things to a lady. Although I think you have

  overstated the quality of my voice, it is plain that you have spoken from your heart, Sir Stranger.” She paused for a moment, before she asked, “Is there something I can call you, besides Sir Stranger?”

  Loric started to speak, but he stopped, dumbfounded. He could not remember his name.

  While he sensed the answer to Avalana’s question, it remained just beyond his reach. Try as he may, he could not draw his identity from the void that had engulfed his memory. There was no name or history in the nothingness of his past life. It was gone. It had completely vanished. “I-I d-do not recall,” Loric stammered. “I-I do not understand this,” he remarked, astonished. As he wrestled with his own confusion, he murmured, “It is a basic question.... yet I have no reply to answer it for you.”