The Tale of Sir Aodren and Sir Antaeus

A short tale about two knights who engage in a rather strange combat. A faerie-story.

Once, there lived just two knights. You might think, “Now listen, sir. How could you possibly know there were only two knights in the world at the time?” But there had to be two knights in the world at some time. This was one of those times. Needless to say they were lonely, for there were no other knights to know but themselves and each other. Even then, they could only meet on occasion.

The reason for their frequently long absences is very unfortunate to hear: you see, one lived on a floating island. I do not mean the kind of island floating and surrounded by water. I mean the kind of island floating and surrounded by air. Now before you say, “Oh! That would be a fantastic place to live on!” let me explain. No one who lived on this air-land was particularly happy. No doubt they got along perfectly well with each other, but the kingdom had become boring and very, very frustrating.

For one thing, the island was so high that any contact with the outside world meant dropping notes, and to ensure that they landed straight and quick, the people would have to strap pillows to their paper (they had used bricks before for quicker service, but that had not lasted long). If they wanted to reply, the grounded town would have to race to their highest point, wrap their notes around an arrow, and fire at designated targets set up around the border of the island. Of course, for this reason, wandering near the edge of the island was not recommended.

Trading was not so much a problem. Rather than fishing for fish, the islanders fished for birds with the softest feathers (it is a rather remarkable sight to see the men releasing their nets into the sky, waiting for the best birds to fly underneath). Once it became known that the floating island weaved the softest, fluffiest, and most delightful feather pillows, demand soared over every town. In return for their comforts, towns would fire arrows with satchels of grain, fruit, or meat (some men regrettably found some fairly shaken and disgruntled chickens).

Nevertheless, it proved quite annoying to establish diplomacy, trade agreements, and to carry out any current plans. It was no surprise to fall asleep well over a certain town, and awaken to find no town in sight, but a whole new civilization on the horizon. For some towns, the islanders did not understand the language, and it was not worth learning; they would move on the next day. There was a lack of constancy for friendships, for no one could be dependable while living on a floating island. Fortunately, there was absolutely no time to conflict with any other nation. Even if war was declared, no one could stop the island from moving away; pursuers would give up the chase, and who would want to fight a nation that always held the high ground? War was certainly the furthest worry from anyone’s mind.  

And this is what Sir Aodren, Red Knight of the Air-land, most despised.

Day and night he would patrol from edge to edge, ever vigilant for troublesome signs that never came. Day after day he sighed in disappointment, imagining a dragon to break through the clouds or a cry of distress to reach his hears. Often he would gaze upon the plains, imagining himself at the front of glorious battles, holding off his enemies single-handedly. No one could hold against the fury of Sir Aodren. Only the cool wind of dusk would bring his thoughts back to his dull reality.  

  Yet one day, as Sir Aodren stood upon the edge of the island, drinking in the morning light,

a whistling arrow interrupted his fancies and pierced his thigh. A sharp cry of alarm echoed directly from below.

“I say, sir! Have you been injured?” a man called.

“Blubbering fool!” Sir Aodren lifted himself, “How dare you strike without a declaration of war! I demand to know your name!” He gazed down to earth, only to see a man in green armor standing upon a high building. Both men would have to shout to be heard clearly.

“Declaration of war?” the grounded man asked incredulously. “I was trying to hit that target next to you! I have a letter, but the sun had blinded me! I apologize for—” at that moment, an arrow from Sir Aodren knocked off the feather plume from the man’s helm.

“You filthy cad!” the man wheeled around. “A fair maiden gave me that plume!”

“Your plume was a filthy rag!” Sir Aodren called, “Are you sure she was not a witch?”

“You have insulted Sir Antaeus the Green Knight!” the man called, “Pray for mercy, and I will let you live!” Sir Aodren’s heart leaped for joy, for he had never met another knight before.

“And you have injured Sir Aodren the Red Knight!” Aodren replied, “Pray for mercy, and you will die quickly!” Sir Antaeus’s heart also leaped, for he had met no other knight in the land.

“Come down here and challenge me!” Sir Antaeus beckoned.

“Alas! I cannot!” Aodren called, “for my Kingdom will be defenseless without me! You come up here and challenge me!”

“Alas I cannot!” Antaeus replied, “For my Kingdom too will be without its champion!” At this point the distance between the two knights was very great and both had to strain to hear the other.

“The next time we meet will be your last!” Sir Aodren shouted before the distant form of Sir Antaeus became concealed by the morning mist.

“The next time I will be waiting for you!” Sir Antaeus’ voiced echoed back.

Weeks passed by and neither knight could find sleep. Both passed their dull days awaiting their final meeting. Aodren had the most expert weavers weave him the strongest and longest rope that he could measure. Daily he would strap the rope around his waist, be lowered down, and swing off the side of the island in search for his enemy. Antaeus hired servants to add to the tower he had stood upon when speaking with Aodren. When they had reached their highest, a spire was placed upon the tower. Daily, Antaeus climbed and hung along the spire to glimpse the coming of the floating isle. On one clear day as both knights hung aloft, Antaeus on his post and Aodren on his rope, their gaze finally met.

“Sir Antaeus! I have come to face you!”

“Sir Aodren! I have waited to be faced!”

As the distance quickly closed, Sir Antaeus held up his hand. “Oh wait, Sir Aodren! We must agree upon rules of combat!”

Aodren lowered his sword thoughtfully. “Indeed we should!”

Hastily both knights laid out the rules of combat. There should be no slicing of ropes or spires and no kicking as Aodren’s legs could only dangle; only one hand could be used as Antaeus kept one arm on the spire; in the event of any weather condition, the battle was not to be called off. By the time they had shaken on their agreements, both knights got off one sword swing before the distance grew beyond their reach.

“Our combat!” the knight’s wailed together.

“You coward!” Aodren shouted, “You wanted to distract me to avoid our fight!”

“You spineless weakling!” Antaeus replied. “That was the feeblest attempt at a swing!”

“The next time we meet, it will be your last!”

“I shall be here!”

Yet both knights were sorry to see the other go. The weeks and months passed. Aodren sharpened his sword; Antaeus polished his armor. Both knights gazed upon the same sun rising and falling in the sky. They watched the same stars, twinkling in expectation for their fight. The same moon reflected their obsession for exploits. Until upon one storming day, both knights set their eyes ahead and saw the other on different horizons.

Their time was short but their battle was fierce. The lightning struck with every sword swing as if the heavens itself were battling the earth. Blow after blow was dealt before their swords swung nothing but air.

“Not a scratch on me, Sir Antaeus!”

‘Nor I, Sir Aodren!”

“Then, you swine, the next time we meet it will be your last!”

“I shall be here, you rotting piece of meat!”

Yet both knights were very sorry to see the other go. Of course weeks and months passed. Antaeus and Aodren met and fought many times in the course of the following years. Their periodic meetings became appointments on a calendar and followed a casual routine. There were the insults:

“You dirty wench’s pet! I spat on your mother on the way here!”

“Your mother is barely worth my spit you pile of sheep dung!”

The swords would clash briefly. Then more insults:

“Aha! You might as well fight with a wooden sword!”

“If I met you on solid ground I wouldn’t need a shield!”

Each time the knights became sorrier to see the other go. Their eyes became downcast at every parting, and it was not long before both had forgotten the reason for their feud. Soon the casual insults became personal inquiries:

“Good to see you, Sir Aodren! How has your year been?”

“Peaceful but uneventful. How is your wife, Sir Antaeus?”

“She is with child!”

“You don’t say!”

The swords would clash violently. Then compliments were in order.

“I do believe you reached my shoulder-blade!”

“Well you gave me what for! I almost lost my grip!”

“Next time then?”

“I await you!”

 The weeks and months passed on yet again, however the next time proved to be the worst of it. The fateful day began normally: the climbing of the spire and the lowering of the rope. As the knights neared one another for the last time, a terrible sight took hold of Antaeus who nearly lost hold of the spire.

“Sir Aodren! A dragon! I see a dragon on the horizon!”

“Nonsense Sir Antaeus! We agreed on no tricks some time ago!” but suddenly a piercing roar consumed the daylight, and their armor rattled at the sound. “A dragon!” Aodren howled, “Why have we not seen it before?”

“Their sleep is long and hard,” said Antaeus gravely.

“I think it sees us!”

Both knights looked upon one another as if in final admiration before clasping wrists.

“Our battle is not over, Sir Aodren.” Sir Antaeus stated.

“The next time we meet will be your last.” Sir Aodren grinned. 

The dragon let out another deafening roar as it neared. “Hrag the Wyrm has awoken!” it snarled, “The depths of the earth have set me loose, for even the fire of the earth cannot stand my flames!” The winged beast approached the spire at full speed. Its black form seemed as a wound upon the once clear, blue sky. Laughter and fire poured from his jaws as it neared the dangling knights. “My feast has already been laid out!” its voice mixed with the fire. “Many knights have I devoured but you two shall certainly be the easiest!”

Rounding upon Sir Aodren, who was quickly climbing his rope, Hrag opened his jaws to engulf the Red Knight. In wit or fear, Sir Aodren let go his hold on the rope and fell just beneath the great jaws. The now feeble rope snapped under the power of Hrag and stuck between his tall fangs, dragging the poor, wrapped Aodren along with it.  

Antaeus was not idle. After climbing down from his spire, he swiped his sword and sliced the spire from its base. Sheathing his weapon, he gripped the lengthy spike in his arms and awaited the wyrm to round upon him. As Hrag neared the tower, his jaws opened to reveal a wide mouth and the abyss of his throat. “Your stick is no match for my hide!” it growled and soared directly to the Green Knight. Sir Aodren still sat dangling from Hrag’s mouth, swiping his sword. In a timely strike, Aodren sunk his blade deep into the jaw of the wyrm. Hrag opened his mouth wide in pain.

In that time, Sir Antaeus gave his first battle cry and leaped from his perch. His gaze marked Aodren, swinging valiantly. He caught the dragon’s eyes, sharp and hungry. He felt its breath against his hair, smelled the putrid odors. He passed by the spiked fangs that dripped with tiny flames. Landing upon the slippery tongue he felt the mouth close around him. The light of the sun was shut out, and Sir Antaeus thrust his spire deep into the back of Hrag’s throat.

The dragon wheeled about; it turned and floated in agony. Far it flew onto the next horizon, Sir Aodren swinging his sword and hanging from its mouth, Sir Antaeus covering his ears and hiding under its tongue. At long last Hrag’s mind began to falter and his eyes began to cloud. The great wyrm descended upon a dense forest in death rolls. In one last effort against his end, Hrag slowed his descent and tossed his torso upward. Much of the fall was lifted, but the dragon fell down violently to his doom.

Sir Aodren fell amongst the limbs of the trees before the last fall and climbed down with great difficulty next to the dead Hrag. It seemed the dragon had kindly sought to leave his mouth agape for the Sir Antaeus, who rolled out in a pool of spit and blood.

“Sir Antaeus!” Sir Aodren called, “Defeater of Hrag! My sword is yours to wield!”

“Sir Aodren!” Sir Antaeus coughed, “Bleeder of Wyrms! My sword is yours also!”

At length, both knights had recovered from the ordeal.

“I know not what lies before us,” Aodren stated, staring into the dark folds of the wood.

“We will meet it together,” Antaeus replied, sheathing his sword. “If dragons have awoken upon the earth, then these are dark times indeed. Who knows what beasts have been set loose?”

So the only two knights in the world set out into the dark of the Sylvethian Wood and passed on into the swamps of Myrgust, but that is quite another tale...   

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

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