The Geis

A knight defends his prince at a lonely outpost.

The Geis

Nathan Rice

Narrative

 

            Clouds raced across the dark sky with maddening speed. No celestial body occupied the omnipotent sky, no star to stare unblinking down upon the mortals below which were locked in deadly battle for what seemed like the very life of the outpost itself. A fierce, cold wind cut like a razorblade across the lightly wooded area where a small outpost stood as the last defense against the wilds.  Most of the trees and brush surrounding the outpost had been burned or uprooted as flames danced wildly about in random haphazardness.

            Rowan fought beside his prince, defending him with all his strength. They were losing ground and the beasts seemed to come from everywhere. Their hairy faces split in malicious grins full of teeth that stunk of rot and decay.  The beasts stood on their hind legs and towered over Rowan who was much larger than most men. Their height and massive weapons gave them a clear advantage and both Rowan and the prince had to struggle to stay alive. They were almost cornered, with their backs against the wall of the outpost. Rowan's dark eyes flashed in anger as he realized his desperate plight.

            As one, all the beasts charged in at the prince. Their combined size was massive, a moving wall of teeth and steel. Rowan tried to save the prince by throwing himself in front of the onslaught but something struck him from behind. He was thrown to the ground. The force of the impact blurred his vision and he watched his prince be overtaken by the enemies. Their maniacal laughter mixed with the sounds of the battle. They ripped the royal spear from the prince’s hands and with a roar of triumph used it to skewer him, sending his limbs askew. His small frame sagged, and his long black hair fell around his thin features. A sickening roar erupted from the prince as they lifted him off the ground with impossible strength and buried the end of the spear into the ground. Howls of triumph split the chill air.

Rowan tried to move, lying on his back with the frozen ground pressing against him. The battle raged around him, the murderous beasts howled with laughter. The dog-like monsters must have thought he was dead because they turned and ran to join the rest of the battle; their mad laughter went with them. Rowan was alone with the prince, alone with the dead all around him.

Placing his hand over the wound just above his hip, he could feel the jagged edges of his rent armor turned inward, the fine leather padding torn. Stumbling upwards he sank back down as his skin stretched, sending his eyes pulsing to white and his breath catching in a moan. Pain gnawed at the edges of his sanity.

Maybe all this was insanity. Maybe he wasn’t laying here, a failure of a Knight, watching his prince bleed to death on a pike. The sound of the battle seemed so distant. The steel that once rang so true for him now sang a far off sad song. Perhaps it was a lament for him and his prince. A ragged cry from the prince sent shivers down Rowan’s spine. He shut his eyes hard against it, trying to drive it from his mind like horses from a fire.

The air grew quiet as if the battle had been extinguished as easily as a bedside candle. Someone called his name, quiet, choked. Again, as if the owner of the dying voice were drowning. Rowan’s eyes flew open and the world with all its pain and horror came rushing back in one brutal, pain-wrenched wave. His sword was gone, his horse was gone. He was once again a ruined Knight, waiting to die. Who would call him here? He had failed his duty as a knight, his prince was dead. He wanted to die and pay for that for all of eternity with all the other disgraced dead.

“Rowan!” The voice was liquid, but Rowan knew it. He rolled his head to the side and saw the prince fully as if for the first time. He was impaled through the back. Strength drained from him visibly as he rested at least five foot from the ground. How could the man still be alive?

“My Lord...” The only words he could force through his blood caked lips.

The prince’s words bubbled from his mouth. “Tell the king I have failed.” His voice faded, choking on air. “We must be ready.” A fit of coughing took him, his body gave way to spasms as his hands flew to the blood-stained head of the pike; as if to pull himself off of it and rejoin the battle.

 Rowan wanted to get up, to bring his prince down off the pike, but the mere thought of it was agony. His duty as a Knight compelled him to speak. “Ready for what, my liege?” The exertion of speech brought a whole new world of pain; it became a living thing inside of him that twisted and writhed in the young knight. Rowan fought fiercely to remain focused on his prince as his breath came in ragged, wet gasps.

“Hell’s gates are open! The hounds have broken free.” The words were so mixed with blood that they spewed from his mouth and the prince was shaken by more coughing. His body heaved and fell limp, blood coursed slowly down his outstretched arms. His head rolled to look upon Rowan, those pale blue eyes turned the color of crematorium ash, and he could see the life draining from them. The last heir was dead, the Kingdom was broken.

Rowan tore his gaze from his prince. Tears stung his eyes, whether caused by pain or horror he did not know. Both would be with him always. He struggled to stay conscious, but felt himself slipping into oblivion, into the deep, dark, endless void that the oldest Knights spoke of after the flames of their fires were low and the wine was running thin.

He saw the battlefield, Holy Knights in their shining armor smeared with blood. He saw the mages garbed in their flowing red robes. The cries of the dying mixed with the sounds of steel on steel and the roar of fire and crackle of lightning. Mages were mixing magic and steel, hurling fire and raining lightning down on their enemies. He saw his fallen comrades being crushed under the steel boots of the beasts that had been laying siege to the outpost. They towered over the tallest Knight on the field and wielded weapons that he had never seen before.

He knew he had to deliver the message, to disregard his oath as a Knight and to die now would bring about the end of the kingdom, maybe even the world, ensuring an eternity of punishment in the afterlife for the young Knight. As one of the King’s men, he had sworn a blood oath to the whole royal family, and to break such an oath on the battlefield would damn him to hell. He would fulfill the prince’s request. It was his quest, his geis. Nothing would stand in his way now, not battle, beast, nor death itself.

Rowan raised himself off the ground to kneel before the remains of his prince. He summoned all of his strength to pluck the spear from the ground. The prince’s body slumped onto the frozen dirt. With a quick jerk and a sickening sound he pulled the spear from the corpse and laid his prince to rest on the battlefield. If Rowan lived he would give him a proper burial. He gave a quick salute, hefted the pike and launched himself toward the battle.

Heaven help him. Heaven help them all.