A Joust of Knights

CHAPTER TWELVE

Erec stood at the stern of his ship, taking up the rear of his fleet as they all continued to sail upriver, and he looked out behind them, downriver, watching the twisting river for any sign of the Empire. On the horizon, he could still see the faint outline of black smoke from where they had created a blockade and had set the ships on fire, and judging by the smoke, it was still burning strongly. Given how tightly wedged those ships were in such a narrow area—and given the fires keeping them at bay—Erec felt confident that the Empire could not break through quickly. Erec imagined they might have to resort to ropes and grappling hooks to pull away the debris. It would be a slow and tedious process. It had bought Erec and his fleet the precious lead they needed.

Erec turned and looked back upriver, saw his ships sailing before him, and felt relieved that he was at the rear; if the Empire did catch up with them, Erec would be the first to defend his people.

“You need no longer worry, my lord,” came a soft voice.

Erec felt a gentle, reassuring hand on his arm and he turned to see Alistair, coming up beside him and smiling graciously back.

“Our ships are faster than theirs,” she said, “and there has been so sign of them all day. As long as we keep sailing, they shall not catch us.”

Erec smiled back and kissed her, reassured by her presence, as always.

“There is always something a leader must worry about,” he replied. “If it’s not what’s behind us, then it’s what lies ahead.”

“Of course,” she replied. “All security is an illusion. As soon as we stepped foot on this ship and set sail from the Southern Isles, safety did not exist. But that’s what ships are meant for, is it not? That is what makes us who we are.”

Erec was impressed by her wisdom, her courage, and he knew that royal blood flowed through her. As he studied her, he noticed her beautiful blue eyes glistening, and he sensed something was different about her—he was not quite sure what. He felt as if she were withholding something from him.

She looked back at him questioningly.

“What is it, my lord?” she finally asked.

He hesitated.

“You seem…different these past days,” he said. “I’m not sure how. I feel you are perhaps…withholding some secret from me.”

Alistair blushed and looked away, and he felt sure that she was.

“It is… nothing, my lord,” she said. “I am just distracted by the departure of my brother. I worry for Thorgrin, for Guwayne. And I wish to be reunited with our people again.”

Erec nodded, and understood—though he was still not quite convinced.

“Erec!” suddenly shouted a voice, and Erec turned to see Strom beckoning him at the bow of the ship, agitated.

There was a sudden commotion as men rushed forward for the front of the ship, and Erec broke into action and raced across the deck, Alistair beside him.

Erec weaved his way between men until he finally reached the bow. Waiting for him was Strom, who handed him a long looking glass and pointed upriver.

“There,” Strom said urgently, “to your right. That small speck.”

Erec looked closely through the glass, holding it to his eye, the world moving up and down as they sailed through the current, and slowly, it came into view. It appeared to be a small Empire village, perched at the river’s edge.

“It will be the first village we’ve encountered since entering this land,” Strom said beside him. “They could be hostile.”

Erec continued looking through the glass, taking it all in as they got neared, the wind carrying them closer with each passing moment. It was a quaint village, comprised of one-story clay houses, smoke rising from chimneys, children and dogs running about. Erec spotted women walking about casually, unafraid, and in the distance, men farming and a few fishing. From their dark skin and small stature, they appeared to be not of the Empire race; they seemed a peaceful people, perhaps under the Empire’s subjugation.

Indeed, as Erec waited patiently for the current to carry them closer, he was surprised to see these people were of the human race—and as he looked closely, he spotted Empire taskmasters positioned throughout the village, holding whips. He watched a woman scream out as a taskmaster lashed her across the back, forcing her to drop her child.

Erec grew hot with indignation. He did a quick tally and counted perhaps a hundred Empire taskmasters spread throughout this village of several hundred peaceful folk.

He lowered the glass and handed it back to Strom, determined.

“Prepare your bows!” he shouted back to his men. “We sail into battle!”

His men cheered, clearly thrilled to be back into action, and they lined up along the rail and took positions high in the masts, bows and arrows at the ready.

“This is not our battle, my lord,” said one of his commanders, coming up beside him. “Our battle awaits us far on the horizon. Should we not press on, and leave this village alone?”

Erec stood, hands on his hips, and shook his head.

“To sail onwards,” he replied, “would be to turn our back on justice. That would make us less of who we are.”

“But there is injustice everywhere, my lord,” his commander countered. “Are we to be the knights for the world?”

Erec remained determined.

“Whatever is put before our eyes is put before there for a reason,” he replied. “If we do not make an attempt to rectify it, then who are we?”

Erec turned to his men.

“Do not show yourselves until my command!” Erec yelled out.

His men quickly knelt, concealing themselves beneath the rail, preparing for the confrontation to come.

As their fleet of ships neared the village, rocking in the river’s current, Erec sailed out in front, taking the lead—and soon, the villagers caught sight of him. The villagers began to stop what they were doing, farmers stood where they were, fishers began to pull back nets, all staring in surprise.

The Empire began to notice, too: one by one, Empire soldiers began to turn from their tasks and watch the river, looking curiously at Erec’s ships. Clearly they had never seen their like before, and had no idea what to expect. Perhaps they assumed they were Empire ships?

Erec knew he had but a brief window of surprise until the Empire soldiers realized they were under attack—and he was determined to take advantage of it.

“Archers!” Erec shouted. “Introduce these Empire men to the strength of the Southern Isles!”

There arose a great cheer as Erec’s men rose, as one, up from behind the rails, took aim, and sent a volley of arrows towards the shore.

The Empire soldiers turned to run—but they were not quick enough. The sky blackened with hundreds of arrows, arching high and descending, piercing the taskmasters one at a time.

They cried out, dropping their whips and swords where they stood, collapsing to the dirt, while terrified women and children screamed and fled.

“Anchors!” Erec cried out.

His fleet dropped their anchors, and they all followed Erec’s lead as he jumped over the rail, flying through the air a good ten feet, landing in the water, up to his knees, then drawing his sword and charging on the sand.

As Erec led the charge to the village, Strom a foot behind him, dozens of Empire soldiers rushed forward to meet him, swords and shields at the ready.

The first sword slash came down, right for Erec’s head. Erec blocked the blow with his shield, then swung around and slashed the soldier in the stomach. At the same moment he was attacked from the side, and he turned and slashed the other soldier before he could lower his sword, then turned the other way and kicked one back in the chest, sending him back, splashing in the water. He head-butted a fourth, breaking his nose, smashed another with his shield, and stabbed another in the chest.

Erec spun in every direction, a whirlwind, cutting through the ranks of hundreds of Empire soldiers. His men were close behind, and Strom, at his side, fought like a man possessed, felling soldiers left and right. Cries ran out in the morning air, and Erec lost more than one soldier, as more and more of these vicious Empire fighters seem to pour out of nowhere.

But Erec was filled with indignation at how these cruel taskmasters had treated the defenseless women and children, and he was determined to set things right and liberate this place, whatever the cost. He had also been eager, for far too long at sea, to let loose his aggression on the Empire, hand to hand, man to man, on dry land. It felt good to wield his sword again.

The sound of a whip cracked through the air, as an Empire soldier came at them from behind and lashed them with his long whip, catching Erec and Strom by surprise as he lashed the hilt of Erec’s sword and yanked it from his hands. Erec reacted quickly, turning and throwing his shield sideways; it went spinning through the air and hit the soldier in the throat, knocking him down. Defenseless, another soldier brought his sword down for his face—but Strom stepped up and blocked the blow for his brother, then stabbed and killed the man.

Erec charged forward, ankles splashing in the water, grabbed his sword, extricated the whip, and kicked the taskmaster back, then stabbed him in the chest.

The fighting continued, on and on, thick and heavy, the waters running red with blood, men dying in every direction—until finally, it slowed. The clanging became less persistent, the smashing of shields dropped away, the sound of armor clinking died, as did the shouts and cries of men. Soon all that could be heard was the running of the river, thick in the air of silence.

Standing there, breathing hard, sweat running down the back of his neck, Erec looked about and surveyed the battlefield, and slowly, inwardly, he rejoiced as he saw his men standing over hundreds of Empire corpses, victorious. They all looked to him proudly, these great warriors of the Southern Isles, men he could not possibly be more proud to lead.

Slowly, like rabbits emerging from their holes, the villagers crept out of their houses, out of the village, coming forward in disbelief at the sight. They seemed hardly able to fathom that all the Empire taskmasters, these people who had oppressed them so badly, were dead.

Erec stepped forward and raised his sword and walked through the ranks of villagers, slicing the shackles holding them together—and all around him, his men did the same. He saw the villagers’ eyes fill with tears as they dropped to their knees, liberated.

He looked down as one of them grabbed his leg, knelt, and cried.

“Thank you,” he wept. “Thank you.”