I remember once....
The day began with the screech of a crow. Meul, an early riser, had already donned the heavy armour of knight. His head tilted, absorbing the evil omen of the crow with an equanimity of a man who knows of no such evil omens. The hollows of his eyes turned to me and only I could percieve the redness there.
He was a man who never slept.
Even now, the afterglow of the crows' carcass dishembled in his eyes, blinding him to anything other than the truth.
"Find this Bledheim, and kill him."
That was all. He need say no more. As much as I hated Meul, I could not deny this order. We were brothers, and Bledheim had done the irrational. He had exposed himself. Even if he was himself, a brother too.
A glance gave the herald the inducement to cry his song, the shrill metallic blast of an army engaged in war. So many will die today. The thing was, they will die for the idea of freedom, but thier death really meant the hunting down and extermination of a rouge.
Nothing more.
Such a waste.
The cavalry formed into lines, and advanced. It was slow, inexorable, advancing at a trot. The clashing of thier armor was unmistakable, the solid thunder of two thousand hooves unmistakable.
Slowly they went, in line, a majestic inducement to the wild heathens to run. But they didnt run. These were Germans. They wouldnt run.
We knew that.
At last, the entire line broke into a full charge. The noise was enourmous. Nevertheless, Meul gave the order to advance the cohorts. The line of cavalry crashed into the German line. They folded. What could you expect? No one has ever stood up to a heavy cavalry charge. No one ever could. Those who stood thier ground were trod upon, those who fled were hacked down. The infantry line had little to do in cleaning up, there were few left and most of those overwhwelmed.
Everywhere the line faultered except upon the left flank. Somehow, they had held thier ground, but suddenly I knew why. There was one horse, beyond the line, inciting its' warriors to hold. And hold they did. He was helmeted, with a nose guard so his face was hidden. Nevertheless I knew his name. A cold shrill went up my spine as Meul knodded in aquiescence, he knew as well as I did that this man must die.
Forward I spurred my horse, staight through the line. After the time, it may have seemed heroic, dashing through the line as I did, but really it was nothing. The disorganized German line had already been broke, the confusion easily overcome. A few strokes of my cavalry sword and any opposition unfolded before me. Alone, I confronted the only enemy that mattered, the only enemy who could identify who I really was.
He stood there in full plate, an extravagant figure that I always likened to the Teutonic Knight of half a century later. It is wierd how these memories become mixed across the ages.
One look at me and this man knew why we were really here. He knew this army cared nothing about his indescreet settlement, that we were here for him. He could see it in my sleepless eyes. He knew that look. He had killed before, with that identical look in his own eyes.
Almost imperceptively, his shoulders slumped. He became old before mine eyes, he became less of a man. He knew that it was not me seeking him, but death, a being he had long ago disgraced, had long ago fled. Regardless, I spurred my horse into the gallop of the attack, and without even so much as a parry, his head slid from his neck as effortlessly as my sword was swung in it's wide arc.
I would never, ever, go down so easy!
I was disgusted.
Enraged even.
I turned my horse furiously, wounding his already iron mouth, and began striking every moving thing within reach. In my fury and disgrace, I must have struck down 20 men, friend and foe alike, before I felt that powerful arm restraining my arm, and that voice, unmistakeable :
"Ganshauk, it is done, you must rest now. You must forget."
I swooned, I guess, at that point. For I knew no more.
