BEFORE

“His left eye was blinded by blood. Gathering his strength, he forged ahead. The ordeal was taking its toll, only he knew the many battles he had fought to be where he now stood. With every step, the steel in his hand felt heavier. To carry it was more arduous than any duty he had ever known. The urge to let go of his burden was more than ever the driving force of his mind and body. He knew that he had in hand the only means to destroy the enemy. There, at the gates of the end of the world, whence the shadows of his enemy flowed from and the armies of mad kings marched, he shed the last blood. Not tonight, he would walk with the God of Death.”

- Cycles from the era of the Four Kings.

- I -

The waves crashed with violence into the bay, but the sound of despair was much greater. The crying mingled with the screams, the screams mingled with the dread, and the dread put everyone on edge. It was the third day in a row that refugees had flown into Riveon harbor. The few who arrived were already broken, inside and out, and the mere thought about of the state of those left behind made everyone repulsed. A single boat, made of rotten wood, could carry anywhere from a hundred to two hundred souls, even though it had a capacity for just under fifty. But it was necessary, it had to be that way. It was better to board a vessel knowing it would sink in the straits between the continents than the disgrace they left behind. And when in fact they sank, their carcasses were washed away by the merciless tide, littering the bodies on the black rock of the beach. The remains, like those of those they traveled with, mingled with the coast like a grotesque extension of it, providing support for those who had managed to swim for their lives.

The bell of the nearest belfry seemed to burst the air with each toll, trying to guide people through the night, since few torches were kept burning with all that wind and humidity in the twilight. Nobody knew what to do, there was no preparation, there was no breath. The few guards who were there tried to calm the people down with blankets and fires, but even they were tired, some on the third round in a row, motivated only by the desire to help. But among them a figure stood out, an imposing Knight, a newcomer descending from his sorrel. The man wore black armor with a crimson cloak. The heat must have been killing him, but he didn't seem to care. He started helping the guards, who wouldn't stop for a minute. Brandelua was at the sheath, sharpened by a man who had betrayed her days before. I didn't intend to use it, not even if things got too out of hand. He felt his lungs struggling to fill with air every step he took through the crowd. He felt the weight of that situation on his shoulders. Nausea came for many there, as a contamination, even more now, due to the rotten aroma of some of the bodies that were lying there since the first day, since there was not even time to get them out of there. But the Knight was used to that scent, he knew men who used it as perfume. Refugees rushed past him in droves, without even being able to examine their faces. However, a face caught his attention, she was as confused as he was overwhelmed, but the innocence in her gaze didn't seem to understand very well what was going on. The girl must have been perhaps six or seven years old and was screaming for help, looking for her relatives, but the Knight knew their fate. Using his weight, he cut his way through the crowd, even a man that size had to fight not to be swept away by that living wave. He thought he had lost sight of the girl at least half a dozen times, but his eyes always found her. Wandering, looking for someone who was no longer there. Without thinking twice, the Knight grabbed her by the arms.

"What is your mother like?" he had to scream to be heard. He kept the sentences short to make it easier to be understood. "How does she look?"

The girl was confused, not understanding what the man was saying, they didn't even speak the same language. Her people were different, with different customs and languages, but the man remembered some words, which he had learned from smugglers in Kasban.

“Nohda?” the sound took time to come to his mind, but it was certain to get a reaction from the girl. That was the word she understood by “mother”.

“Nohda assane brute” she replied sobbing.

The Knight knew that "assane" was red, was the same word they used for blood, and deduced that "brute" was hair, as this was the color of the girl's. Her mother had red hair just like hers. This would make his search much easier. With a brusque tug, he scooped her up, telling himself that we'll find your mom, I promise. He didn't intend to make empty promises to himself, he knew the weight of words. He also knew that if he wanted to help, he would first have to convince himself of it. Furthermore, he hadn't noticed it before, but now, the big bruise on the girl's arm was clear and agonizing. It looked like a bruise, but it didn't behave like one, it was much more rigid, like the scab of a healed wound. That got to him. Even trying not to shake, it was hard to swallow that something so fragile, so young, carried such a severe brand of war that happened across the Sea of

Swords. Such traumas from a war were buried in the Knight’s mind, but that situation brought it back like a horse's kick. The girl screamed in shock in the Knight ears.

“Nodah! Nodah! Basume!” and judging by the emotion that came out of his mouth, The Knight would understand what that would mean in any language in the world.

There were many bodies thrown on the beach, many people pushing each other in hysteria, but the man, saw a guard struggling to bring order out of chaos.

"Anyone looking for a lost girl?" he shouted at the man, who was trying to contain the crowd. “No one?”

“Many, by the dozen” the man threw the answer as he tried to guide the people.

"Someone with red hair?" the Knight asked. "Looks like this one?"

The man didn't respond, just shook his head in denial.

“Perhaps Weren, the harbormaster, saw it” said the guard at last. “He's taking care of the Upper Dock, but I'm not promising anything.

The Knight nodded a thanks and went back to the Sea of Flames. He had to cut through most of the beach if I was to reach the upper dock. It wouldn't be easy, but that wouldn't stop him from trying.

- II -

At every moment, hundreds of people arrived at the beach, and soon it would get out of control. Holding the child more close tho him, the Knight squeezed through the uncontrolled crowd. If he fell there he would be trampled to death, and there was no doubt about it, he had seen it happen years before on the battlefield, more times than he would have liked. The city's utter unpreparedness was as guilty as anyone. When someone took a stab trying to protect what little they had brought, the guards could do nothing but stare with their hands tied. Better for them to let it happen than to cause a riot. As if that hadn't turned into a riot long ago. The barbarity was as present as the water crashing on the beach. Analyzing his surroundings, the Knight noticed that in the previous dawn, soldiers had been sent to set up temporary shelters for all these people. But, judging by the disorder, they must have been crowded even before the sun rose, each tent housed four or five families. This, considering that those present there had been lucky enough to arrive as a family. Most did not have that privilege. But the Knight wanted to change that, even for just a child, who he carried in his arms with hope. I was almost at the Upper Dock. The building was a wooden dyke, of raw oak, projected into the sea at least fifty meters away. It was where the bigger boats arrived, where all the boats intended to dock, if not for all the adversities they faced. Now it was the emptiest point on the beach, considering that very few boats arrived there in one piece. The surf was the worst part, almost all the makeshift boats had sunk with the waves crashing into their hulls. A ladder made of the same wood as the deck led up to the Upper Dock, with support ropes at each end, serving as a handrail. The Knight struggled each step, trying not to slip with the girl in his arm. The ground was damp, and her hands were busy for support. He looked for this Weren guy, the Knight spotted him, in the middle of the deck, arguing with a thick, wet man who had just come out of the water. He quickened his pace, but stopped short when he realized the guard had hit the ground. Stabbed by a rusty blade, which the man he was arguing with had taken from his sleeve. The other guard only had time to sound his horn as he too was attacked. The Knight had held on well so far. He put the girl down and unsheathed Brandelua. The man came toward him with the knife in his hand, but the Knight needed only a flick of the sword to cut him in half. Chaos was reigning everywhere. Before he could go down the stairs, he heard screams ringing all over the beach, he needed to get the girl out of there fast. She was still screaming in his ear. He remembered the girl's words. Red hair just like hers, he thought, walking down the stairs. He felt her feet sink into the water as he reached the base of the steps. The tide had risen, making it even more difficult for those still in the water. Now, more and more corpses laid among the stones and the sand. The girl punched the Knight's back, pulling his hair. He tried to hold her tighter and tighter, but every minute she seemed to get even more exasperated. Her crying was now just a constant sob, there were no more tears, and she was hoarse from screaming. Disorder seemed to intensify behind him. Since those guards had been killed, the terror, which had been there before, had spread like a typhoon. He could feel himself stepping on corpses, but it was impossible to see the ground clearly. He could see the sea, and he stopped for a moment to stare, something he already feared. Faintly, a little ahead, he saw a woman dressed almost entirely like the girl. The red hair was there, and the man didn't need to hear from the girl's mouth that this was his “Nohda”. He hoped the girl hadn't seen that scene. He decided to leave the beach once and for all. Fought, he found his way into the chain of guards trying to control everyone's entry into the city. For some reason, the path was being kept closed.

"Let me through!" he shouted, a command. “Let me through! I need to pass, god dammit!”

No one responded, it was almost impossible to understand anything.

"Let me through, or I'll crush each of with my bare hands!" he yelled even louder. And by the face of fear present in the soldiers, he had been heard.

Ledon, the same guard as before, held out his hand to the Knight. His face was lavender with blood.

"Any luck with the girl?" the man said as he guided the Knight and the girl inside the gate. "From your face, I don't think so."

"What the damm is going on?" The Knight wanted to know. "Why aren't they letting anyone through?"

“Lord Arno ordered us to do so. The horns were played, and we lost control of the bay. It's chaos out there.”

"And you think I don't know that?" the man in black armor replied. “A string of guards won't be enough to stop them all. Believe me, soon the situation will spill over into the city. They are just refugees. They need shelter!”

"I can’t do anything. I have as much authority as a dog. Take this child inside the walls, and leave her in a safe place. Please come back, we'll need you here.”

"Leave her somewhere safe?" The Knight rehearsed a laugh. “Soon nowhere will be safe. And if I come back here, it will be to fight alongside them.”

Turning away from the crowd, the man started up the cobblestone street that led to the town's entrance gate. It was steep and treacherous, even more so with a child in his arms. With a whistle he called Orvo, the sorrel took a few seconds to appear, leaping through the guard's barrier. He put the girl in the saddle and led the horse with the bridle on foot. Right near the gate, most of the way up, he felt a thick drop of rain fall on his nose, and before he could take another step, he was drenched in the storm.

He heard the city gate opening, giving way to cavalry led by a lord. The Knight knew what would happen.

"Come on, lads!" commanded the Lord on top of his brown stallion. He had cold and imposing features. From the clothes, he belonged to the royal family. "The rain will sweep away the spilled blood!"

All the men wore armor, as their lord, except for the wolf-shaped ornaments that molded the nobleman's armor. They were prepared for an all-out war, but of course it wouldn't be one, their opponents wouldn't have a chance. The horses dashed down the street, easily descending the path the Knight had just climbed. The black armored man pass through the gate with a child in his arm before it closed behind him, and from within the wall, he heard the sound of chaos outside turn into a slaughter of blood and bone. He swore to avenge every single person killed that night. Even if he had to get his hands dirty with the blood of a monarch. Because the Knight understood the girl's feeling, for he had felt this way before.

Previews Knight Tale: A Long Forgotten Name

Next Knight Tale: A Mislaying Past

Writen by: Humberto Tramujas

Illustration by: Laylton Souza

You can purchase the Knight's Miniatures through this link.

Copyright © 2022 Cripta Studios.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

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