by N.D. Bailey
One night, several riders were at the pub, shooting darts in a friendly match between them and some locals. Some of the local young ladies sat admiring Nuvatian, flirting whenever the occasion gave way. Sitting across the room, one of the young ladies stared at him, all too often getting up and walking past him, hoping to gain his attention. When this failed, she moved her seat, closing in on the men near the dartboard. Her black hair was put up on her head, with some ringlets hanging down. Making herself entirely obvious to Nuvatian, she made direct eye-contact. He acted as though he might be interested.
Noticing the woman’s flirtations, as well as Nuvatian’s responses, Nadora became annoyed by the pesky woman, jealous of the attention he was giving the girl. Navi couldn’t help but play it up a bit, trying to pretend that Nadora was with him just to annoy her.
While Nadora was shooting darts with the men, she stepped closer to Nuvatian, and occasionally eyeballed the woman, shooting her a stern look, hoping to get her to back off. Nuvatian, now well aware of her reaction to the other girl, basked in the jealous greenery; it seemed to confirm that she did indeed like him. Even though he didn’t find the woman particularly attractive, he now and then flirted back, just to see what Nadora would do.
On another night, again while playing darts, a couple of local men sat sipping their beer and gawking at Nadora. They took note that she didn’t appear to be with any of the travelers in particular. As she flung her darts in the company of the other riders, two men sat at the bar, drinking and watching her every move. Their scruffy whiskers and body odor testified to their unconscious attitudes toward hygiene. The more they drank the louder and more obnoxious they became, provocatively vocalizing their attraction for Nadora, occasionally making cat calls at her. Nuvatian and Nimri both grew irritated at their lack of respect for her, and walked over to the pair, politely asking them to leave her alone, or leave the place. Even the bartender called them down.
Contumacious, the two drunks became belligerent and antagonistic, looking to stir up a fight. One of them rose from his seat and shoved Nuvatian. “What are you gonna do about it?” The other man threw a punch at Nimri. Blocked his hand, Nimri hit him, once in the stomach and again in the face. Punching him one last time, he fell helplessly on the floor.
His bedraggled friend then pulled a knife and turned toward Nuvatian. Holding it like a dagger in his right hand, he charged, thrusting the blade at his face. Stepping slightly to the side, Nuvatian crossed his arms and blocked the knife, parried the man’s hand and threw him to the ground, while taking the knife from his hand all in a single motion. The sot lay on the floor, stunned and still trying to figure out what had happened.
The other Riders of the Circle stood aside, seemingly enjoying the fight. Wesley, the owner of the pub, picked one of them off the floor. Vandorf couldn’t resist socking the loudmouth, laying him out one more time. Following his mentor, Fleece threw in a punch for good measure. Wesley picked him up again and threw him out the door while one of Wesley’s friends snagged the other guy and tossed him out behind the other. Humbled, neither man tried to reenter the pub.
After all the excitement, the riders went to their rooms while Nadora went to the barn behind the inn to check on the beasts. Typically Gilgore stay in the barn but he had decided to go gallivanting around Gadilrod to familiarize himself with the city and had not returned yet. On her way out of the stalls, one of the two drunks was lurking behind the door, waiting for her. (He had already observed that she routinely checked on the mounts before turning in for the night).
Unaware, she came out of the barn, right into the grasp of this bilious drunk. Grabbing her by the arm, he pulled her toward himself. Nadora, with one hand under his elbow and the other on his wrist, shoved his elbow straight into his face, locked her hand around his arm, and slammed his face into the ground; she then jerked back with force, yanking his shoulder back, and out of its socket. Then she gave him a swift kick of the foot directly in the side.
The man’s yowl now drew the attention of some coming out of the pub. Hearing the commotion, Wesley the pub owner ran out the back door of the pub to the barn, following the sound of the man’s ceaseless hollering. Wesley was stunned and rather amused to find the same drunk he had thrown out of his place, now pinned to the ground by the woman.
Wesley roared with laughter. “Ya skunk-butt drunk, that’ll teach ya not to mess with the women. I have had it with you!” Nadora let the man up, holding his wrist in a locked position, and then she threw him into the street.
During the night, the rumors circulated about “this lady kicking some sod’s backside.” By morning the tales were bigger than life, and Nadora was well-esteemed as a master in the art of fighting. When the young lady who had been flirting with Nuvatian got wind of what had happened, she ceased coming to the pub for the remainder of their stay.
The next morning, Nadora was not with the other riders when they went to get breakfast at the pub, having slept in instead since she actually got her own room in this inn. When the riders entered the pub, the talk was running at high speed.
“That is some lady you got ridin’ with you,” Wesley said.
“Yes, she’s a fine lady,” answered Nuvatian.
“I hear she like to have killed that one last night,” a man said at the bar.
“She like to have killed who?” asked Navi, bewildered as to what the man spoke of.
“That drunk that attacked her at the bahn.”
“W-what drunk?” Skeener stammered, holding his own pounding head. “W-what at-t-tack at the b-barn?”
“Oh, you mates had gone to your rooms,” said Wesley. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear the commotion! Well, let me fill you in. Last night she went out to the bahn, and one of those guys was out there, one of them I threw out last night, and he attacked her. She 'bout ripped his arm off, then she laid him out. His shouldah’s out of place, perhaps even broke, as well as his arm. She broke his ribs too, and I don’t know what else she did to him. He couldn’t walk when he left. She socked him good. I bet he won’t evah mess with a woman again. He’ll at least think twice about it!”
“I’ll k-k-kill him if she d-didn’t.” Skeener fat cheeks turned red with anger. That’s the p-princess!” He pounded his large fist on the bar, gripping his head with the other hand.
“Princess! The pub owner sounded surprised.
“Y-yeah, she’s the pr-pr-rincess of Sh-ah-a-lahem.”
“Well that makes the story even bettah.”
Nuvatian ran up the stairs to her room. He pounded on her door. Inside, all was quiet; when suddenly, he heard something like furniture scraping the floor and something dropping on the ground and breaking. He kicked the door twice, the door flung open on the second kick. Barging into the room, he stood stupidly. Nadora stood by her bed, her hair messed, her eyes only partially open, wearing her gown imprinted with a knitted dragon. Nuvatian was shocked and embarrassed as he stood there in her room, having burst in on her in her night clothes. He was even more shocked that she was wearing dragon-printed ones. On the floor by the nightstand was a broken clay pitcher, the pottery shattered in pieces.
“I was just making sure you were all right,” he said, somewhat awkwardly.
Nadora just looked at him, stunned, without a word, her eyes barely open.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean… Umm, nice pajamas.” He was nearly speechless. “I just heard what happened last night!”
“Last night?” She rubbed her eyes trying to wake up.
Now totally humiliated, he tried to make amends. “My apologies. The pub-owner said one of those drunks attacked you last night. And when I heard the furniture move, and the jar break, I thought someone was in here now!”
Nadora rubbed her eyes and tugged at her dragon gown, but didn’t respond.
“He said you almost killed the man!”
“Aahhh!” Nadora was amused. “I didn’t almost kill him. I just
put his shouldah off its joint.” She laughed again.
“That’s the reason we didn’t want you to stay by yourself at night.”
Just then, the other riders came barging into her room.
“Oh sure, just come on in everyone.” Walking to the door, she saw some people in the hallway. “Yaw want to come on in here, too?”
“Sorry, princess,” whispered a couple of the riders.
“Ooh, I have pajamas with dragons on them, too,” Navi crooned. “See? Dragon pajamas aren’t just for kids, crony!” He turned to Nuvatian and nudged him. “And you laughed at mine.” Nuvatian really didn’t have anything to say now as he stared at a now thoroughly knowing Nadora. She raised both eyebrows and gave him that look that says, “You just lost a point!”
“A-are you gg-oin’ to eat b-breakfast with us?” Skeener was hoping she would. He had grown to like Nadora and was thoroughly convinced that she was a warrior in her own right.
“Yes, I will be down in a few minutes,” Nadora answered, eyeballing Nuvatian. “After I change from my DRAGON pajamas.” Navi grinned, finding it hilarious.
Going back down to the pub, the men joined some of the friends they had made. Shortly, Nadora joined them for a hearty meal.
Throughout the day Wesley told the story of the princess who had beaten up the maleficent drunk, embellishing it more and more each time. The riders and Wesley formed a strong bond of friendship and they were always glad to make a new friend—but they didn’t dare disclose the purpose of their mission.
They weren’t about to make that mistake again.
The Potter
The water splashed upon Moridar’s legs as Windsor traveled down the stone paved road alone in the rain, the others having decided to stay in and rest for the day. He needed to be alone, to think. Besides, it would be nice to explore the city, for it had been many years since he had visited Gadilrod.
Traveling down the road, he saw an old and faded white and green sign advertising a pottery shop. He had always enjoyed watching the art of pottery, finding it relaxing to his mind. Tying up his dragon, he walked into the studio.
At first, Windsor couldn’t see a thing as he entered the dimly lit building. The only light in the studio was what shone through the window, a small one without curtains or shades. After his eyes adjusted to the faint light, he began to observe numerous pieces of eye-catching pottery, shelved and marketed for a purchaser of these finely crafted commodities. Some pieces were small, some larger, some etched with various designs and some painted; none of them were alike.
Windsor walked into the room and saw the potter at his right in an open side room where he was working his clay. The old gray-haired man looked to be immersed in his work, forming and shaping the clay. Lying beside the basin of the wheel was a large brown dog with shaggy hair; it seemed friendly, wagging its tail. The potter never looked up, keeping his eyes on the clay. Spying a rickety wood seat to his right, Windsor sat down and observed the potter’s craftsmanship. Not wishing to disturb the man, he remained silent.
In the dim light, Windsor watched as the slim potter fashioned the mound of pliable clay on his wheel. He observed the potter pressing his hands into the center of the clay, working it as it spun around on the wheel, forming a center to the lump. Dipping his hands in a tub of water, the potter cupped his hands and then pushed the clay in and then he pressed his finger in the center and pulled it back out again. He did this three or four times, the clay now pliable and free from air bubbles.
Next, he moistened his hands again and placed them on the outside of the clay, smoothing its surface as it spun round and round on the wheel. A slight mist of clayish water flew from the wheel, splattering onto the potter’s dirty apron and the stained wood floor. The potter never took his eyes off the clay. His hands lightly embraced the clay causing it to take on the desired shape. Occasionally, he would wipe his hands on his apron.
Soon, the lump of clay was becoming a vessel, a cultural and stylish container, representative of the finest of art. Perfecting the inside, the potter worked the sides, smoothing them as his hands moved from bottom to top. Next, he smoothed the outside again and put a lip around the top of what was now clearly a pot. As Windsor observed him, the potter gave it some unique detail, branding it with its very own identity.
Having finished, the potter stopped his wheel. With his head still bent down, he spoke for the first time: “Old man, many are your life experiences, but beware of using your past for reference to your future decisions. Beware, death is chasing aftah you!”
“It doesn’t take a prophet to see that I am an old man with many life experiences, and that death is closing in on me.”
The slender old potter looked up from his wheel. He looked directly at Windsor with a blank stare, black holes bound to the shadows of darkness. Windsor was taken back. One eye was a hole of flesh where his left eye once had been. The other eye was glassed over, as though it had been painted with a thick coat of glaze. Windsor, stunned to see that the potter was blind, was now shaken by the old man’s words. Death. Soon? God knows I’m old enough, but. Windsor's mind drifted off, wondering how he was going to die.
The potter felt for his cane and took hold of it. Rising, he walked toward a shelf of pottery. Picking up a finished clay jar sitting on a shelf labeled “for sell,” he spoke again. “Beware of an old friend. He might be the death of a dear friend, if not you yourself.”
He intentionally dropped the piece. The pot shattered at his feet. The noise frightened the dog and it skittishly darted to the other side of the room. Shards of pottery scattered across the floor. The potter said again, “Beware .” Then the potter looked directly at him as though he knew right where Windsor stood and his exact height so that he looked at his eyes. “Don’t take it to heaht,” he continued. “Know that it is a rash decision.”
“How can I prevent this friend, as you call him, from hahming anothah?” Windsor asked.
“The great gift of freewill is sometimes a great curse when in the clutches of temptation and fear. Prevent it? A narrow margin lies between his sword and anothah. It is a mattah of going right or left.”
“And my death?” inquired Windsor.
“Inevitable,” said the blind prophet.
His dog now returned to his spot beside the wheel.
Shaken by these words from a blind old potter, Windsor stood silently for a moment. He absorbed the words. Then, he laid a coin down beside the wheel and hastily walked out the door.
As he rode back to Fletcher’s home, he pondered the words of the old potter, as well as the past events, and how Fletcher had risked his life to save his. I am surrounded by many old friends. I have friends who go way back. Which one would betray me?
He continued to weigh possibilities, as the conversation within his head went on. Don’t take it to heart! Well, why would I, I ought to be used to this by now. It’s not like I haven’t been betrayed before. He rubbed the scar across his face. Is this just anothah reference to the betrayer already spoken of? Is this a separate betrayal? He said something about another. So is one of my friend’s lives on the line too? Windsor didn’t have the answers, but he knew if he didn’t get a revelation of it he would find out the meaning in time. In time, that much was for sure.
Now he murmured some of the thoughts out loud: “Am I supposed to treat them all as a threat of betrayal? He must be speaking of Fletcher. But why would Fletcher betray us? Maybe he blames me for his leg.”
“No, it’s that bloody sword.”
After two weeks in Gadilrod, the rain finally stopped and the sun shone through, drying up the water and drying out the mud. Their stay in Gadilrod had been refreshing. They had gotten some much needed rest and made some new friends, including Wesley and Dorso. In addition, Windsor, Gilmanza, and Vandorf had been reacquainted with Fletcher. But Windsor wondered if that had been a mistake.
On the third day after the rai
n had stopped, the riders rode out, but not before eating one last breakfast at Wesley’s Pub. Dorso came by, and gave each of the riders a little leather coin-pouch bearing an emblem he and Fletcher had designed especially for the Circle of Riders. Wesley served them breakfast on the house, and the riders said goodbye to the friends they had made at Gadilrod.
As they left the city, Windsor was still giving weighty thought to the potter’s disturbing prophecy.
He hated the thought of dying.
Discouragement
It was now the dead of winter and there was still no sign of the sword. Luckily for the riders, they were traveling in the southern regions where the climate is less harsh. They probed every corner of the vast land, searching for Pip and Cozbi. But it was to no avail; it was as though they had fallen off the face of the earth. They sunk deeper into lassitude with each passing day, riding through rain, occasionally gales of wind and even hail.
Tired. Miserable. Useless.
The riders also grew accustomed to the sense that someone—or something—was following them; but the gnawing feelings dissipated with time.
Ozni remained optimistic, trying to keep their spirits alive. The veteran warriors, Windsor, Gilmanza, and Vandorf expected nothing less than this, for they knew this would be a long and difficult mission.
Monguard still got away with playing practical jokes without becoming suspect. Once, in the middle of the night, he stuck Vandorf’s freshly polished boots in a pile of dragon dung. Navi was blamed for the mischievous prank. No matter how much he denied it, Vandorf doubted his innocents in the matter. Navi suspected Monguard again and was plotting his revenge.
It was common knowledge that the further southwest they traveled, the closer they got to Quadar, the thicker the droves of derves became. They had traveled this long journey without spotting a single one, but now a group environed them, following them from tree limb to tree limb. The nasty little vermins kept a safe distance away from Gilgore, whose head towered into the trees. The smart ones ran away immediately upon eyeing them; the ones that didn’t run got their necks wrung if either of the giants got hold of them. For whatever reason, they were not attacking them, but the riders had to constantly remain on guard.
Their biggest nuisance was their annoying and discouraging whispers.
The mood remained heavy. These negative notions were spurred on, of course, by the mendacious murmurs of the derves, urging them to turn back and abandon their quest:
“This is useless. You’ll nevah find the sword. Turn back,” one breathy voice told them.
“You didn’t really think you were going to make a difference did you,” whispered another. “Even King Justiz knew he couldn’t make a difference—that’s why he didn’t ride—and you certainly can’t without him.”
“People really don’t care about the sacrifice and effort you are making; you really should just go back home.”
“Just turn back. The Immortal King didn’t ride with you. He even knows it is useless. He doesn’t care about the mortals. It’s useless”
“There’s nothing more you can do. Life is short, go have some fun.”
The redundant whispers reverberated in the riders’ heads. The breathy words seeped into their consciences like poison in an underground stream. They breathed lies, uttered curses of defeat, talking a blue streak of dissuasive words. Ignoring them was almost impossible. The whispers were persistent and relentless, like a babbling fool that prattles enough that he finally gets his way.
Behind every tree was a word of discouragement, above them, to the side of them, in front of them, they could not escape. Their only strategy against these taunting devils, other than killing them, was to continue to tell themselves the opposite of what these lying quidnuncs said. That daunting task became more difficult as the riders grew more disheartened and weary.
The leeching whispers had begun to suck the life out of them and sometimes confused them. It was more than a mild irritation; it had caused great tumult.
They wanted to quit.
Suffering from exhaustion, the riders grew discouraged; some even secretly began wishing they could end their search and go back home. Windsor, Ozni and Monguard seemed immune to this, or so the others thought, but they weren’t. Windsor was seasoned in their devilish ways. Ozni hummed sometimes and whistled, sometimes with a smile on his face, even when they were sloshing through mud. When anyone said something about the creatures, he always reminded them that it was all lies and to just ignore them. “You know that we, have a critical role in these present events and we must stay focused on the mission and remind ourselves of the truth.”
When Monguard got tired of riding or discouraged in spirit, he leapt off his mount, passed the reigns onto Navi and sprinted through the woods, leaping off trees and rocks. His head jerked occasionally, but it never interfered with his ability, in fact, some wondered if it didn’t help. His agile movements and speed continued to amaze Gilmanza, and everyone else for that matter. But Monguard knew he had need of staying limber, for a fight could spring upon them from around any river bend or tree. This was a way of reminding himself of his purpose and training his mind to stay focused. He also simply needed to shake off the discouragement, the lies, because he was not immune to their poisonous words. No one was.
Their taunting got under Vandorf’s skin. He was growing fighting mad. He was tired and frustrated and was longing to get the dirt off his body. He chafed at the lies. At one point, in an irascible rage, the Earthdweller pulled out several of his throwing spinnels, peered up into the trees above him, and threw several of them, all of them sinking into their intended targets. “Bloody little infernal insidious hell-born incubi!” he shouted, throwing several of the spinnels. The spinnels penetrated the thin skin of the targeted derves. They shrieked with ear-piercing cries and then fell to the ground.
Now a hornet’s nest was stirred up as a horde of derves leapt from the trees, landing on the heads and backs of the riders and their beasts. The mounts were startled, rearing and running to get away from the devils. The zebra and stelletoes flapped their wings and the dragons growled.
Some riders were thrown from their mounts, others slung their swords skillfully, but wildly, at the creatures that had leapt onto their backs. Fleece did as he was efficiently trained to do by his grand mentor and sliced through derves like butter. Monguard was unmoved, leaping as effectively as the nimble creatures that were upon him. Before long he had them in a chase, perceiving that they were no match for this wild-man.
Buldar, growing as irritated at the derves as Vandorf, saw it as a great opportunity to release his frustration with the devils. He vented, ramming his sword through as many as he could catch. When a pack jumped onto Ormandel, Zilgar, and Binko, He was glad to yank them off their back and slay them. Unfortunately, not before their sharp claws dug into their skin.
Gilgore grabbed derves from the tops of the trees and pitched them wildly across the overgrowths of the forest. He yanked derves off the other riders, grabbing the creatures by their necks and slamming them to the ground, sometimes even stomping them beneath his huge feet. He impaled one on the jagged edge of a broken tree-limb. The green blood of the derve ran down the tree trunk. When he swung his giant-size sword, it cut them in half.
Windsor silenced the now chaotic scene with a few rambling sounding words that sent the derves flying through the air supernaturally. Those few who managed to escape ran off in every direction. The high pitched screams echoed through the forest as they fled for their lives.
Only one derve remained and it was between Nadora’s hands being shaken to death. Frustrated and furious, she had grabbed a single derve separated from the pack. She had it in her grasp. It was as though the pent-up rage was flooding out of her. Wrapping her fingers around its neck, she slammed it to the ground, got atop it and began choking it and violently shaking its body. As she did so, she shouted childish words at it. She ranted
on, disregarding all proper conduct or bearing for a princess.
“That’s one cool maiden, there, crony,” Navi said, nudging Nuvatian in the arm. Nuvatian thought so too, but he didn’t want to let on, she had shot him down in the barn in Shy Kadesh and was not too keen on taking another chance just yet.
“You won’t think so, when she gets a hold of you like that, mate!”
Finally, she arose, slung the derve into the woods, letting it go free. But the derve was lifeless and as limp as a rag doll.
Finally cooling down, Nadora could hear the snickers of some of the riders. Slowly turning her head, she looked over her shoulder and saw all the riders gawking at her. Cocking her head up and tossing her hair to one side, she raised her eyebrow and muttered, “Oh,” at their attending presence.
“I think the princess has a little pent up anger there,” Vandorf whispered.
“No more than you.” A smirk washed across Windsor’s face. “What was that, ‘Infernal insidious hell-born incubi?’”
“An expression my father used to use for derves,” Vandorf chuckled.
Meanwhile another conversation was started. “How is it that nothin’ seems to bothah you?” Zilgar asked Ozni. “I mean you nevah seem to get frustrated. Monguard seems to be the same way,” Zilgar observed.
“You have to train yourself to stay focused on the mission, without focusing on the inconveniences along the way,” Ozni explained. “You can’t change things by worrying about them.” Ozni paused to let that sink in, before he continued. “And try to enjoy every moment in life that you can. I might not enjoy everything about this situation, but I am enjoying the company. And if I get to where your company gets lousy then I will try to enjoy the scenery. If I can’t do that, then I’ll appreciate the fact that I am getting to serve for the good of humanity, that I am alive and well.” He took a breath, as if simply enjoying the fresh air and being alive. “When it gets too bad, as it has in war, I resolve myself to what will be, and knowin’ I have lived with integrity and I will die with integrity.”
“Good philosophy,” Zilgar said.
“I wish I were a wizahd,” Nimri said. “It must be so cool to be able to do that.”
“Why would you want to be a wizahd,” Amase said. “There is a great responsibility that comes with such a great gift.”
With eyes wide open, Windsor looked at Amase. His profound wisdom amazed Windsor. Not to mention, Windsor had said those very words to Nimri when they were in the west gathering riders before they had met Amase.
Windsor had met many people in his life who desired his giftedness, but almost no one who understood the responsibility that comes with such a gift, especially when it came to the young.
Windsor was impressed with this lad.
Nimri felt like a fool for shaming himself twice now.
The riders mounted their beasts and continued their endless search. Fortunately, no one had sustained more than a few scratches from this encounter. Stopping at a nearby river, they let their beasts drink some water, while they all cleaned up from the battle, washing off the blood, both of derves and their own. Vandorf was quick to let down his hair, rub some soap on it and rinse, and sling it back into a ponytail. He then proceeded to yank off his clothes down to his underpants and scrub his body from head to toe.
How he wished he could wash his clothes.
Ormandel took off his shirt. One of the derves had jumped on his back and dug its nails into his flesh. The devil had raked its claws down his back leaving a rut for each claw.
The riders were laughing and teasing Nadora about her juvenile behavior until they saw Ormandel’s bare back. The atmosphere changed instantly. The revelry ceased and the merry making turned quiet and solemn, even awkward.
Deep scars marred the warrior’s back and chest. Some looked like burn-marks; others bore the distinct markings caused by the plowing of a whip.
Noticing the sudden shift in mood, Ormandel realized they were staring at him. He felt uncomfortable being the center of attention. He looked over his shoulder and knew he had to say something. He was quick to reassure them. “It’s all right. I know it looks bad, but at least I’m alive.”
“What was it like in there?” Nadora asked, with a tone of compassion to her voice.
“It was hell.”
Norssod
The rain had ceased and there were no derves breathing down their necks now, but the discouragement was still alive and present.
The pine needles of the forest gave off a fresh smell. They inhaled the pleasantries of the fragrance. The timbers were tall and the trees close. The riders wove their way through the mass of trees traveling southwest.
It was just before noon when they heard the sound of hooves beating the ground. It had been ages since they had encountered dark riders of Quadar. Anticipating a threat, the riders pulled out their swords, their hearts beating faster as they steeled themselves for combat. But they hoped they would go unnoticed.
In the distance, Gilgore could see a large company of dark riders, their capes snapping in the crisp wind. He ducked, but it was too late. The dark riders raced toward them, not intimidated by the hulking giant. The Circle of Riders goaded their beasts, awakening them into a run. The horses galloped to battle, their nostrils flaring.
The sound of steel against steel resounded in the otherwise quiet forest. Gilgore yanked some of the attackers from their horses and threw them to the ground like sacks of potatoes. His prodigious sword was no match for their little pieces of toy steel.
Meanwhile, Binko secretly chased down dark riders and thrust his invisible sword through them. They never saw him coming.
The fight was on and everyone was deep in blood.
As Windsor withdrew his sword from a Quadarist, he looked up to see a dark rider eyeballing him. The glare signaled that this one might have a personal score to settle. The dark rider dug his heels into his black horse and charged toward the aging wizard. Windsor crossed blades, not intimidated by his countenance. It was the moment that their blade touched that Windsor noticed the blade of the dark rider: it was forged of a reddish-silver metal. It had an air of antiquity, forged from a rare metal. It’s him!
Fire coiled in Windsor’s eyes.
Windsor knew too well who this dark rider was; it was the same rider, and the same blade, he had seen that rainy night, the same night that Nuvatian had encountered the dark riders while riding home from the castle. He knew the blade and he knew the rider. He knew him so very well. He knew the blade even better, because it had once belonged to him. Now crossing swords, they warred, as if forgetting there were others in the battle. They warred with personal passion, a vengeance, as their pent-up aggression toward one another found release at last.
With fierceness, Windsor and the dark rider parried and clashed against one another, swinging their swords with power and skill. Their mounts danced nervously around the fight, obeying every pull of the reigns and every heel in the side. Suddenly, during the heat of the up-close-and-personal fight, the dark rider knocked the aged wizard from his dragon, and his sword fell to the side out of his reach. When Windsor hit the ground, the force nearly took his breath away. The dark rider now turned his black horse around and raced towards the fallen wizard, his sword stretched out. The wizard’s heart pulsated as the thundering hooves of the horse rapidly approached him. So this is it. This is how I’m going to die. The potter’s word’s passed in his mind.
No way! Not by him.
Thinking quickly, he rolled out of the way of the charging attacker. Then, he grabbed the dagger from the sheath on his left side. When the familiar rider turned to charge a second time, Windsor threw the dagger, piercing the rider’s left shoulder. Squirming, the dark rider arched his back in pain. Looking down at Windsor, he pulled the dagger from his shoulder, and threw it back at his enemy. The wizard rolled again, avoiding the dagger, but not altogether, for it grazed the left side of his arm
tearing his tender flesh. With his sword now in sight, Windsor rolled to it, took it up and jumped to his feet.
Engrossed in the fight, it was not until now that the dark rider became aware that many of the Quadarist ranks lay on the ground, dead, while many others were beginning to flee. Standing still, he glared at Windsor, ignoring his own wound. His dark cape flowed in the wind like the wings of a raven. He held the unusual sword high above his head. With one last defiant look, the dark rider sped away into the woods, though not without his horse rearing on its heels.
Gilmanza, Vandorf, and Ormandel looked at Windsor as the dark rider rode off through the thick of the forest. They also knew the rider, and the history between the two.
Windsor ran his hand across his face, touching the scar he bore on his left cheek.
The Riders of the Circle walked across the bodies of the fallen dark riders. “When we reach Norssod we’ll rest up a bit,” Windsor said, trying to redirect the conversation away from the questions he knew they would raise. His efforts worked and no one brought up the mysterious dark rider and the rival between the two.
As night approached, they made camp. Monguard whittled, Vandorf polished, and Ormandel positioned himself between a barrier of trusted friends and the fire, making sure he wasn’t left near the outside of the ring or too close to the flames that licked up old wounds.
In the morning they continued their journey, riding southwest into the Land of Dothor. They aimed to ride to the first city, Norssod. “We should make it to Norssod by late-aftanoon” Windsor said. “We can stay there and rest up a couple of days and get a few supplies.”