Three times knights came to Deron’s house. Each time Deron cursed them when he heard their horses and blessed God’s name when they left. However, each time, they took more and more from him. Deron didn’t know how he would survive the winter. This far north, almost nothing grew when the first snow fell.
Since the war started between Alsbeck and its two neighbouring kingdoms, four months prior, people started dying or fleeing from the village. Only a few dozen stubborn or old men remained, together with their wives and daughters. Most of the younger men and sons were enlisted in one of three armies. Three factions were running around, killing each other. Deron was just grateful that none of the fightings took place near his village, Oak’s Grave.
The first time the knights came, Deron was out with his son, fixing the shed. He heard the hooves on the dirt road even before their voices came. His home, a worn but spacious one-storey stone house, was the closest to the main road. Deron remembered how his son Gus grabbed his sleeve. Gus would always do that when he was nervous.
Three knights reached his gates, however, they were followed by many more squires and foot soldiers. They carried Alsbeck’s banners. They were kind and agreed not to enlist Gus. However, they took more than half of Deron’s winter supplies.
“You do support Henry Reinfrid’s claim, don’t you peasant?”, one of the foot soldiers asked and laid his hand on his dagger when Deron protested them taking his winter’s supplies. Deron could do nothing but oblige.
“By the time the war’s over, you will be gratefully rewarded for your sacrifice”, one of the knights said, smiling as the men took several bags of grain and half of what else food they found in Deron’s home. Deron knew the man’s words meant nothing, but again, he couldn’t do anything but oblige. At least they didn’t lay their hands on his wife and daughter. Deron thanked God that night. His family might just survive the winter.
Some time passed, and Deron went back to working his small part of the land together with his son when another group of knights and soldiers came. This time, however, they didn’t reach his home in shining armour and untested blades. Only one knight was on a horse, others were trailing behind him. Everyone was rugged and starving. This time, the men weren’t kind. Deron didn’t see what banner they carried, but he greeted them, calling them heroes. Deron learnt a long time ago that it’s always best to talk to soldiers just like talking to nobility. That way, they might even show mercy. They weren’t merciful to Deron’s food, however. They took everything he had and butchered three of his four cows and all of his pigs. Some men ate the meat raw, as they couldn’t wait for it to cook. Luckily, the men’s eyes were chained to the food, giving little attention to Deron’s wife and daughter. Still, Deron’s hand would jump to his hidden dagger every time one of the crazed soldiers looked at the women in his family. When they left to sack the other households in the village, Deron thanked God for giving him the idea to bury some of his supplies. Unfortunately, he couldn’t bury a living animal. The fourth cow they left him with, sickly and old, gave little to no milk, and Deron soon killed it for meat.
Wherever wars happen, diseases follow. The rugged and beaten men brought with them the shivering disease. Deron soon buried his wife Jane and their five-year-old Lena. Gus was bedridden for nearly a week, but he pulled through. Despite caring for the rest of his family, Deron remained untouched by the disease. Since the only priest of his village died a long time ago, Deron recited the only prayer he knew when he buried the bodies. Then he thanked God for leaving his son Gus alive and taking his daughter and wife before some deserter or bandit, or hunger, could.
The days continued, when one day a wandering traveller came to their little village, baring worrisome news. The Vituar family was usurped and killed by a new contender for the throne, Oligar the Bold, and now the Kingdom of Sueres was leaving the war. Henry Reinfrid died in an accident while on a horse, meaning that his sister ruled the Alsbeck Duchy. Some even said that the old dead duke came back to life and killed his nephew. Then Daren heard that the war of succession has nearly destroyed the Kingdom of Sueres and that the two other factions allied to conquer and divide Sueres among themselves.
Daren would only shrug upon hearing news like this. He had his field to tend to. Nothing else mattered.
Even after surviving the shivering disease, Gus was never the same. He was never bright, but he had the strength and energy to do whatever was asked of him. After the sickness, he was always tired and unwilling to do anything. Deron loved his son, and it hurt him that he couldn’t do anything for him. Gus’s peers, the sons of other people from Oak’s Grave, would laugh at him. Cruel as children are, they called him Gus the Slow and Dumb Gus. As fate would have it, Gus outlived all of the other boys in the village.
The third time men from the war came to Oak’s Grave, Deron wasn’t even sure they were knights. Only one of them, with a limp leg that was swollen and turning purple, used a piece of a banner as a crutch. It depicted a soaring eagle, a symbol of the house Lorinth. Whom the Lorinths served, and whether that knight served under the lordship of Lorinth, Deron didn’t know and he didn’t dare ask. One man came forth from the bunch and introduced himself as Knight Orwell Peek. It was an obvious lie, but Deron bowed and urged his son to do the same. Alleged knight claimed all of Deron’s possession as needed means to end the war with Alsbeck. With around twenty people around, starving and armed to the bone, Deron couldn’t do anything.
One of the men lingered behind the others, looking at Gus. “Where’s the boy’s mum?”, he asked, looking Deron up and down.
“Dead. In a grave. Behind the house.”
The man sighed and scratched his groin. “How long ago? If it’s a few days…”
“Long. Long enough that only bones are left behind”, Deron gnarled through his teeth.
Disappointed, the man returned to the others in the search of any food or clothing. Deron held Gus as unknown men jumped into his house and ransacked it, looking for anything of use. One soldier, who was missing most of his nose and a right eye, said that there was buried food. How did they find it, Deron never realised. As punishment for hiding and stealing the food, the alleged knight wanted to cut off Deron’s hand. “A fit sentence for a thief”, he said and the others laughed.
However, Gus suddenly started screaming. Deron hugged him harder, but Gus started twitching and fighting. Soon, he managed to get himself free from his father’s grasp and ran towards the man who called himself a knight. The man quickly unsheathed his blade, and the boy was on the ground in a second, with a gaping line on his throat. Blood soaked the ground. Deron jumped and hugged his son while the men walked around them, throwing insults and jokes.
“Shell we cut off his arm?”, the man who found Deron’s buried food asked.
“Digging a hole in the ground will be harder with one hand…”, Orwell lingered thinking. “Let him be. I reckon he got a fair punishment, don’t you think? He might even survive winter now, without the idiot. He should thank us.”
“Yes, sir, he should. You really are merciful”, the other man said.
Deron sobbed throughout the day and well into the night. Something broke and died within him, something that survived when his wife and daughter died. The moon was high in the sky, almost full. It gave light for Deron to dig a grave next to Gus’s sister. Then he walked into his broken home and lay on a pile of hay. Nothing else remained in his home. The men had taken every inch of fabric and even Deron’s rusty cauldron. For the first time in many years, Deron had nothing to thank God for.
There were some turnip seeds left in the house. Except for the walls and pieces of broken furniture, they were the only thing left in his home. Deron found them the next day. Having nothing else to do, he started ploughing the hard dirt. It was too late to sow them, but Deron did it anyways.
None of the other villagers came to him. Curious, he left the seeds and ventured toward the centre of Oak’s Grave. There were a few houses in the middle of it, which made a small square, and a few more a bit far from the centre, like Deron’s.
It was silent, even for an abandoned village. The few houses had destroyed doors and windows, but Deron couldn’t find any bodies. There was lots of blood though. Some red trails even connected the houses.
Deron wondered. He realised he should feel afraid or angry, but he was indifferent. Slumped, he returned back home. The idea of searching other people’s houses for any leftover food didn’t even cross his mind. Deron grabbed the hoe and started making holes for the turnips. While he was in the village, however, sparrows ate all of the seeds. Now there wasn’t even anything to fill the holes in the ground with.
The sound of hooves reached him. Deron let the hoe fall to the ground. Not again, Lord. Not anymore…
He didn’t have anything else to give. Anything but his life. Then he smiled. “Thank you for finally taking me too, God.”
However, instead of angry and war-madden soldiers and knights, a woman riding a horse appeared. She led another horse by her, holding the reins. On the other horse’s back, a man was laying, seemingly unconscious.
Deron perked up. Then cursed. “Why won’t you let me die, God?”, he whispered.
The woman noticed Deron and led her horse toward him. She had long amber hair tied into a tail and wore simple leather riding clothes. She looked young, but her eyes were anxious. The man, on the other hand, was in full armour and chainmail. He had greasy dark hair loose and an untidy beard erupted on his face. Although he seemed fine and uninjured, his armour had many dents and scratches on it.
“My good man, please help us”, the woman said. She led her horse into the field. By her voice, Deron realised that she was tired, although she looked rested and fresh.
Deron looked up. He had trouble finding words. “W-who are you?”, he finally uttered.
“Please, good man, they are chasing us. We ran away but our horses are exhausted. W-we need to rest.”
“I have nothing to give you. This war has taken everything I had, even the lives of my family.” Deron looked at the ground. “This hoe is the last thing I own, together with the clothes on me.”
“I… I am deeply sorry. What is your name, good man?”, the woman asked.
“Deron.”
“Deron, I am Mellory. This man behind me”, she glanced back at the unconscious man, “He had saved me last night.”
“From whom?”
“Bandits”, Mellory answered quickly. “I promised God that I would repay him in some way or another.”
“Is he injured?”, Deron walked towards the man. “He seems fine on the outside, just passed out. Are there wounds beneath the chainmail?”
“I… He just needs to rest.”
Deron raised an eyebrow. “If you have come here to kill me during the night and rob me then slice my throat now and be done with it.”
Mellory gasped. “I-I’d never… why”
“Who is chasing after you?”
“The rest of the group. One who calls himself knight-“
“Orwell?”
Mellory nodded.
“I am… familiar with him.”
“Please, Deron. I only need the roof over our heads for tonight. We have some food. We will greatly share it with you.”
“I don’t need food. I only need to die.”
Mellory remained silent for a moment. “Will you let us stay then, Deron?”
“Why do I need to let you do anything? Just walk in it. I won’t move from this field until Orwell comes.”
“Please, Deron. Just… invite us. Tell me we can stay for the night.”
Deron lifted his eyebrow. “I-Fine! You can stay for the night. But that won’t save you from the bandits.”
Mellory smiled. “That’s all I needed to hear, good man.” Then she urged her horse towards the house. Deron stood in silence, looking as the woman tied the horses and walked in. He grabbed the hoe and started making holes for the turnip seeds he didn’t have.
It was early evening, and the land was covered in many seedless holes. Sweat coated Deron’s forehead and his stomach gnarled hungrily, but Deron kept digging. He expected the men to come sooner. What was holding them up?
Deron would occasionally glance back at his house. The man was nowhere to be seen and the woman rarely came out, only to fetch some pouches from their exhausted horses. Soon, black smoke started rising from the chimney. Idiot girl, Deron mumbled as he dug holes. The smoke would only attract them.
When the sun started hiding behind the mountain, Deron gave up. He wouldn’t die that day in the field, it seemed. Cursing, he went towards his own home, led mostly by his starving stomach.
The horses were restless. Deron looked at them. They were petrified, twitching at the slightest touch. A shield and a sheathed sword were hung on one of the horse’s back. The shield used to be painted, but time and wear had taken the colour. Still, a sigil could be barely seen. A man hanging by the throat from an oak tree. Deron knew that scene well enough. He knew something was off about the ginger girl. Deron grabbed the shield and the sheathed blade.
Deron pushed the door and walked in.
“I was wondering when you would come in…”, Mellory said, not even looking at Deron. She started a fire in the fireplace and there was a pot on it. Where did she find it, Deron didn’t know.
The man was lying on the hay where Deron had slept last night. The woman had placed pieces of damp cloth on his forehead. From time to time, the man would turn in his sleep and mumble something.
“A fever?”, Deron asked, looking at the man.
“Worse”, Mellory said, walking towards the pot on the fire. With a bare hand, she took the hot lid off the pot. The water inside was boiling. She added some herbs from her pouch and then closed the lid.
“Doesn’t it… doesn’t it hurt?”, Deron asked. The smell from the pot was horrendous. His hunger calmed down a bit.
“Oh”, Mellory looked at her hand. “I guess it does.”
Deron neared the pot. “What is in there?”
Mellory looked at him. “I am making him a cure.”
“You still haven’t told me what’s wrong with him.” The man twitched. He wanted to say something, but his words were nothing but slurs of incomprehensible sounds.
“Deron, let me be clear. If I don’t cure him by midnight, we’ll all be dead”, Mellory said bluntly.
“I don’t think a bedridden man can defend you from the so-called knight.”
Mellory shook her head. “It’s not him that I am afraid of.”
“Then who?”
Mellory looked at the man on the bed. She sighed. “I know how to make the potion of renewal. I’ve done it many times before, but I’m missing a lot of ingredients. Not much grows this far north.”
Deron ignored her words and looked at the sick man. For a moment, the man opened his eyes. They were completely black. Then he fell back into his blissful oblivion. Mellory went back to the pot over the fire. Curious, Deron got closer to the sick man. As Mellory talked about how she needed more time, Deron slowly pulled out a silver cross from underneath his shirt. He grabbed the thin rope and dangled the piece of metal above the sick man.
“Don’t you fucking dare!”
Deron jumped back, dropping the shield and the sword. Mellory stood by the pot, staring at him. “I said-“
She jumped, immediately appearing in front of Deron.
“Leave him the fuck alone!”
Deron fell on his back, holding the cross in front of him. That jump shouldn’t be possible for any human, let alone a young woman.
“I knew it!”, Deron said, crawling back. “You’re a witch! You-you are a witch!”
Mellory moved insanely fast again and snatched the cross pendant from Deron.
“How?”, he gasped, looking as Mellory held the cross in her hand.
Mellory grinned. The metal shrieked faintly and Deron noticed a faint trail of white smoke. However, nothing else happened to Mellory.
“What, you expected me to burst into flames?”
Deron stared at the woman. She should catch fire instantly. He had seen witches die before like that. “Why… why don’t you?”, he whispered. Suddenly, he started feeling afraid. He didn’t want to die anymore.
Mellory tossed him his pendant back and swiped her hands off her clothes. Then she returned to the pot. Deron still looked at her, confused. “Well, I guess you now know my secret. Yes, I’m a witch. And a sorceress as well.” Mellory extended her hand and it caught fire immediately. In the next second, only black smoke enveloped her hand. It too dispersed fast, revealing her unharmed white and gentle hand.
“Then… what’s up with him? What have you done to him?”, Deron asked, finding the strength to stand up again.
“That’s rude. Just because I am a witch-”
“Is he turning?”, Deron asked, realising.
Mellory raised her eyebrow. “You are… quite observant.” Then she laughed. Deron shivered at the sound of her laugh. “What’s that shield you’re carrying around?”, she asked. “Whose is it?”
Deron glanced at the shield on the ground. He knelt and picked it up, swiping dust from the hanging man. “It’s from lord Gaellia’s men. Wait, you’ve brought it here. It was mounted on your horse.”
“A peasant who knows about the Gaellias. Those are rare nowadays.”
Deron furrowed his brow. “I… lucky guess.”
“Ha!”, Mellory laughed again. “You’re no peasant. Lord Gaellias died two decades ago, together with his bloodline. And he lived many, many leagues from here.”
Deron picked up the sword as well, although he knew that it couldn’t protect him much. It was regular steel, not the one imbued with silver. Even if it was, Mellory, the witch, was somehow resistant to it. Deron had never met a witch before who could survive the touch of blessed silver.
“You know my secret, Deron. It’s only fair that I know yours.”
Deron unsheathed the sword. If he was going to die from the witch’s hand, he’d rather die in a fight.
“Oh come on, Deron. We both know that sword can’t hurt me.”
“My name…”, Deron sighed, realising he’d broken an oath given a lifetime ago. “My name is Anselm Geriddi.”
Mellory looked at him. “Marvellous job of hiding your accent, Anselm.” She seemed honestly impressed.
Deron, who was once Anselm, paced slowly across the room, always facing the witch. He gripped the handle of the old sword so hard that his finger turned blue.
“You were one of the Gaellia’s stewards? No… You were his squire!”
“My lord died fighting the evil. I have no problems following in his step, witch!”, Deron spat. Memories of his long-dead lord brought courage. He’d fought far worse things than witches before.
“Words of a true witch hunter!”, Mellory smiled. “Oh, if only you knew, you honest fool…”
Deron advanced, swinging his sword, aiming for the witch’s neck. Decapitating them with steel worked just as well as doing it with silver.
Mellory vanished.
Deron nearly lost balance and fell over.
She spoke from behind him. “Anselm, I don’t want to hurt-“
Deron swung the blade, expecting to find the witch, but he only hit the stone wall.
“Damn you and your tricks, witch!”, Deron cursed.
Mellory stood by the man in bed.
“Are you done?”, she asked calmly.
“I will kill you or I will die trying.”
Mellory rolled her eyes and moved quickly across the room, dodging another attack from Deron. They’ve switched places in the room.
Deron looked at the shivering man in the bed. The witch had cursed him somehow. A clean death was better, Deron decided. He raised the sword above the shivering man.
“NO!”, Mellory screamed.
The air moved as Mellory jumped in front of the man. Deron halted the sword. It was an inch above Mellory’s neck.
“Don’t hurt him”, she shouted. All of her sternness left her. Deron realised she was begging him.
He stepped back, lowering the sword.
“What-why did you kill me already? Why did you risk…”
“There’s a reason the silver cross didn’t kill me”, Mellory said, slowly standing up. “My blood is cursed for being a witch, but I’ve done all I could to revert it.”
“Witches… can do that?”, Deron asked, stunned.
“No.” Mellory looked at the man. “I’ve tried everything. I’ve sworn a blood oath even.”
“What oath?”, Deron asked.
Mellory was still looking at the man. “That I shall harm no man unless they are willing to kill him.”
Deron looked at the man. He whispered something. It sounded like Mel.
“Then why didn’t you? I was about to kill him!”
“I…”, she smiled. “I don’t know. I guess I grew to like you, a witch-hunting bunch.”
Deron paled. He looked at the man. “He’s… he’s a witch hunter?”
Mellory nodded.
“So… I am looking at a witch and a witch hunter? Together? Under my roof?!” Mellory smiled. Then she looked at Deron. Then at the window of mudded glass. The sun was setting outside.
“Please let me save him”, Mellory asked. “If he turns, I won’t be able to do anything against him. He would kill everything and everyone around.”
“Even you?”
“Yes. And I’d rather die by his hand than continue living as a witch.”
Deron spat on the ground. “Never thought I’d see a remorseful witch.”
“The times are changing. And since we’re talking about the time, we are running short.” Mellory raised her head. “They’re here.”
“The bandits?”, Deron asked.
Mellory nodded. “Were you ever knighted?”
“No. My lord died before he made me a knight. I’ve been a squire ever since.”
“Bring me your sword and shield, Squire Anselm.”
Deron reluctantly listened to her.
“Kneel.”
“But… you’re a witch. You’re a woman. How can-“
“Kneel!”
Deron got on one knee. “My blood, while cursed, is noble enough. And the lack of manhood means little in these situations.”
“Anselm!”, she continued. “Do you swear an oath of chivalry? To always uphold virtues of honour? To guard and protect the innocent and the weak?”
Deron was silent for a moment. He didn’t think this moment would ever happen. “Yes, my… Lady. I swear!”
“Then rise, sir Anselm Geriddi, and fulfil your vows. The enemy is at the gates, shall you give everything, even your life, to protect God’s people and lands?”
“Yes, my Lady”, Anselm said and stood. Mellory stood in front of him, smiling. “I’ve always wanted to do that”, she giggled. Then she handed him the shield. Anselm took it but froze upon seeing it. Before, it was a faded and ruined piece of wood, held together by rusty metal. Now, it was grand and new, the paint on the shield was fresh and vibrant.
“What did you do-“
Mellory gave him the sword. Anselm raised it above his head. The faint sunlight reflected off the pristine steel. The sword seemed polished and freshly sharpened.
Mellory neared Anselm and kissed him on the forehead.
Suddenly, Anselm felt younger and stronger. His back straightened and his mind was sharper. The sword and the shield seemed lighter in his hands.
“What have you done, witch? Did you curse me?”
Mellory sighed. “It’s a blessing. And don’t worry, it isn’t permanent. You’ll return to your old and grumpy self soon enough.”
“Did you curse my blood for these gifts?”, Anselm asked in all seriousness.
Mellory shook her head. “It’s just simple magic. Also, remember that apart about the enemy at the gates?”
Anselm looked through the muddy window. Two balls of orange flames were moving. Men with torches were coming for them. Anselm, surprised at his newfound courage and determination, headed towards the door.
“Wait!”, Mellory said. “Once you go out, I will start the ritual to cure him. It’s too late for potions, I’m afraid. You will hear awful screams inside, but whatever happens, don’t let anyone in! Otherwise, he will come out and slaughter everyone.”
Anselm looked at the twitching man on the bed. “Godspeed”, he said and walked out.
#
A young man, barely fit to carry a sword, sat on the ground in front of the small fire he just started. He wiped the sweat off his brow. They’d been riding the entire day. Despite how much they were exhausted, especially the horses, the young man felt nervous and restless. The smoke from the fire would only draw attention, wouldn’t it? But damn, did it feel nice.
“Anselm!”, a stern voice called.
The young man stood up and walked towards the man who was still standing next to his horse. The older man had trouble walking, so Anselm helped him to the fire. Grunting, the old man sat on the ground.
“Heavens, does this will nice…”, the old man said. He wanted to sound happy and content, but his voice gave away hints of fear and pain. Then he coughed in his sleeve. Anselm ignored the blood.
“What will we do now, Lord Gaellias?”, Anselm asked. He looked at the night sky. Numerous stars shined, although the moon was nowhere to be seen. Though it looked perfectly normal to Anselm’s eyes, the Moon could never be seen around Vallasca. And they were way too close to Vallasca for Anselm’s liking.
Lord Gaellias coughed. Anselm looked at the old man. Once a true and noble witch hunter and knight, Gaellias was now but a shadow of what he once was. His long dark hair has receded, leaving a bald patch at the top of his head. The beard turned white, and his muscles thinned. Only Gaellias’s eyes retained the determination of a witch hunter.
Due to Gaellias’s lands being the closest to Vallasca, where all evils originated, the men from Gaellias bloodline frequently trained to be witch hunters. Anselm spent nearly a whole year serving under the lord. Soon, he would be knighted. Well, that’s how it was supposed to be. But the old lord was poisoned and marked. A witch they were trailing for the last month uttered a curse on the lord with her dying breath. His blood attracted all kinds of beasts and monsters. Even some regular men would go into a maddening frenzy upon seeing the old lord.
“If we want to reach the monastery in time, my lord, we ought to hurry. I don’t think that starting a fire was a good idea…”
“No”, the old man answered. With the shadows dancing on his face, Lord Gaellias looked even older than he was. “It wasn’t a good idea at all, my dear Anselm.”
“But-But why did-“
Lord Gaellias lifted his hand to silence his squire. “You are to be a knight in less than a month. Knights are smart. They observe. They… understand.”
Speaking in riddles wasn’t strange to Lord Gaellias. However, Anselm understood him. “Sir, please! You can’t give up!”
Gaellias laughed. “I just wanted to feel warmth one last time, my dear boy.” He sighed. “Take both the horses and flee north. I fear this curse might have spread to you. Ride as north as you can, away from Vallasca’s reach. Maybe… maybe they’ll spare you.”
Anselm spat on the ground. This surprised the old knight. “I won’t! I gave my word-“.
“You idiot!”, Gaellias bellowed. “This isn’t about honour. It’s about surviving. I order you, boy!”
“I-I can’t!”
“Anselm, listen to me.” The old man coughed blood again. “Don’t run home or to any cities nearby. Don’t draw these beasts to your family.”
Anselm felt fear.
“Boy”, the old knight persisted. “I order you to… run!”
Something growled in the woods around them.
Alexander Gaellias sighed. “Give me my sword, Anselm, and run. Don’t turn back. I’m afraid someone else will have to knight you.” Grunting, the old knight stood up, leaning on his silver sword.
“Now go!”
Reluctantly, Anselm stood next to the horses, holding their reins. He looked at the old man who meant so much to him. Lord Gaellias stood with his back to the campfire, looking at the darkness among the trees.
Realising he was crying, Anselm mounted one of the horses and ran north.
#
Knight Anselm Geriddi stepped out of his house. Exhaustion and hunger didn’t bother him anymore, and he had determination and courage in his eyes. He tested his sword and shield. It was as if they were light as feathers. Anselm grinned. He looked at the bunch of bandits gathering in his field. They clumsily ran toward him, burying the holes he had dug that afternoon.
Anselm looked at the rugged men. A few carried torches, but the full moon revealed all of them. They were barely a bunch of savages, armed with stakes and bludgeons. A few carried swords. One of them, who even had some kind of armour, was the self-proclaimed knight Orwell.
Anselm smiled. These weren’t men he was looking at. They were more like primitive beasts. Maybe the curse from his old lord still persisted. Few came closer to Anselm, but they slowed down upon seeing him. Something seemed off about him in their eyes. Some of them lingered, nervously swinging their weapons. Some of them did not. The man without a large part of the nose and his right eye, the one who found Anselm’s hidden stash of food, attacked first. Surprised at his own speed, Anselm blocked the man’s axe with his shield and cut deep into the man’s torso. Easily enough, he pulled the sword out of the man and slammed his face with his shield. Unaware of what had just happened to him, the man fell to the ground, face first.
The rest looked in shock at Anselm, who remained in front of the door, wiping the blood off the sword. They looked at each other, unaware of what to do.
Then the screams came from behind them. All the bandits took a few steps back. Even Anselm, who was expecting horrendous screams from the inside, shivered. He could clearly differentiate five or six people screaming with terror within his home.
He spat. Anselm hated witches. But at that moment, he hated the men in front of him even more. The image of his son, choking in his blood, came to him. He smashed the blade at his shield, overpowering the screams from within the house. “Who wants to die next!?”, he shouted.
A few men ran at him, swinging their weapons. Anselm easily blocked and evaded them, cutting and slashing at the bandits. Some screamed, gripping their bleeding wounds and cut-off limbs, and some fell silently onto the unfertile land. Anselm hardly broke a sweat. His face was covered with bandits’ blood, however.
“Where’s that son of a bitch who kills little boys? Where’s the one who dares call himself a knight?!”
Orwell stood at the back of the bandit group. His face was too far for Anselm to see, but he expected that the self-proclaimed knight didn’t look as fearless and convinced as the other day.
With a nervous tone, Orwell shouted. “Run him down. He-He’s just one man!”
Most of his men listened and rushed Anselm. He met their blades and parried them away. The sword cut through flesh as if it were butter. The men fell, soaking the ground with their blood. After killing a dozen, Anselm sighed. Sweat was now dribbling down his face and his muscles ached. He still had strength in him, however.
Five more stood; four bandits and Orwell. Two of them looked at each other and ran away.
“Cowards!”, Orwell shouted at them, but it was obvious he wanted to go with them. The two that were left cursed and attacked Anselm, holding their rusty swords high. He deflected one blade and broke the thug’s teeth with his shield. The other man jumped at Anselm, but the knight knelt and welcomed the man with his sword, cutting open his innards. As Anselm stood, the other man, the one without teeth, managed to cut Anselm’s side. Anselm cried out and jammed the sword into the man’s stomach. An awful smell surrounded Anselm as the man fell onto the ground, his innards out in the dirt.
Bleeding, Anselm turned to Orwell. The screams, although a bit weaker, were still emerging from the house. Anselm looked at the blade. It was slowly getting blunt, and there were slight patches of rust appearing on it. The shield was also slowly losing its paint. The blessing from the witch was running short. Anselm himself was feeling weary and exhausted.
Luckily, the self-proclaimed knight didn’t notice this. “W-who are you?”, he stuttered.
Anselm was silent, slowly pacing around the man. His back ached, but he tried not to show it.
“I-I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”, Orwell stuttered, with his eyes chained to Knight Anselm. “I didn’t mean to- the boy… he… I was only defending myself?”
“Defending? From a little boy?!”, Anselm shouted, his anger restoring some of his strength. He stepped forward. Orwell backed away, tightly holding his sword. “Please, I-I don’t want to die-“
Anselm jumped at him, swinging his sword. Screaming, Orwell somehow managed to block it and take a few steps back. If he wasn’t so afraid, the self-proclaimed knight would realise how slow Anselm has become. “I-I, please! Let me go! I yield! I yield-“
Orwell tripped over one of the still intact holes for the turnip seeds, dropping his sword.
“You want mercy? Where was mercy for my son!?”, Anselm stood above the sobbing man, placing the tip on his neck.
“P-Please, I beg you. I yield!”
Anselm looked at the sobbing man. He wanted to kill him. He wanted to drive the steel deep into his throat.
…
“Fuck…”, he growled. “Stand up!”
Orwell looked at him amid his sobbing, confused.
“Stand up, I say!”, Anselm kicked him. He couldn’t kill a man who surrendered, no matter how much he wanted to.
Quivering, Orwell stood up. He raised his hand defensively. “I-I…”
“Shut up!”, Anselm snapped. He didn’t know what to do. If he was to leave the man alive… he’d just go away and kill someone else’s child. But if Anselm was to kill a man who yielded to him, he wouldn’t be a knight anymore. And the wretched screams continued in the background, screeching in Anselm’s mind.
Anselm remembered Gus. He remembered carrying his cold body to that grave he had dug out. Anselm raised his sword…
Suddenly the screams stopped in the background. The sudden silence seemed even more deafening.
Shrivelled and grey fingers appeared around Orwell’s neck. They had long black nails. Anselm looked in horror as Orwell screamed, trying to get himself free, but the fingers tightened around his neck. Orwell’s face became blue, but then one of the fingers drew a red line on the man’s neck. The nail cut clean, and a curtain of blood drenched Orwell’s clothes and the dry ground beneath.
Twitching, Orwell suddenly fell, gripping his throat. Mellory stood behind him, smiling. She hid her hands behind her back. When she raised her hands again, they were young and white.
Anselm paled. The exhaustion suddenly came back to him, like a fist in the stomach. “You-you…”
“I needed his blood, Anselm. To carry out the ritual. He probably didn’t know it, but he had a sliver of royal blood in him. In a blood sacrifice, even a drop of royal blood is priceless.” Mellory cocked her head and looked at the dead man at her feet. His wound stopped bleeding. “How ironic, isn’t it? That he called himself a knight…”
Anselm fell to his knees. The pain in his side overwhelmed him. His blood has soaked through his clothes and was now running down his legs. The hungry dirt swallowed it eagerly. Anselm coughed blood. “You… how did you kill him?” Anselm raised his eyes at the witch. “You swore-“
Mellory was laughing.
Anselm looked at her, having trouble finding any words. His vision blurred. He didn’t even notice when he hit the blood-soaked dirt.
“Don’t worry, my knight”, Mellory caressed the man’s hair. “I will take care of you. I’m sure Alexander would be proud.”
Anselm’s eyes looked at the night sky. The witch’s words barely reached him. The knight looked at the stars, noticing how they were similar to the day when he ran north… I’m dying, he realised. A smile appeared on his lips. Thank you… God…
#
Jory opened the door and stretched. It was late morning, but he felt well-rested. Jory tried to remember when the last time he had such a good night’s sleep was. The witch hunter looked around. He was in front of some old ruined house. There was a large field in front of him, covered in… dead men.
Jory sighed. He wasn’t surprised at the scene, as much as he was disappointed. Also, Jory didn’t notice the suspicious lack of blood around a dead dozen men. The witch hunter heard a tune. Scratching his long beard, he followed it around the house. He stumbled on a young woman filling a grave. There were three old ones next to it.
“Mel…”, the witch hunter said. “What… happened?”, the man squinted.
Batting the fresh soil on the grave, the woman stood up and brushed her hands on her dress. Then she walked over to Jory and kissed him on the lips. “You just had a rough night, dear. But I took care of it.”
“Alone?”, Jory gasped. “You killed a dozen men back there… alone?”
Mel wistfully looked back at the fresh grave. “No, I… I had some help.”
A small wooden board was placed in front of the grave. Something was written on it.
Anselm Geriddi – lived a squire – died a knight
