September

Issue 36

     Sir Garlach of the Crossed Hands was in the king’s audience hall when the messenger arrived from Omshire, his dusty, travel-stained clothes starkly contrasting with the shimmering courtiers. His message was equally stark amid the glittering bustle of the court: A dragon had been seen in the hills; the local knight was missing.

     Garlach stepped forward to volunteer. So a single stride is finished, he thought. A dozen years between the lifting of a foot and planting it.

     ”The Frowning Knight,” someone murmured behind him, loud enough to earn a glance from the king.

      “Sir Garlach, the woodsmen say there is a stag in the North Forest who carries a five-foot rack on its noble head. Tines like scimitars!” the king said, waving the messenger away for a bath and a meal. ”Prithee stay and join the hunt, rather than chasing after some rumor. You need not prove your valor to us.”  

     My valor is a sham, Garlach thought. Others might see a stern veneer of confidence, but I am weary of looking at my reflection every day and seeing the shadow of a coward lurking there.

     And what had happened to the knight whose manor overlooked Omshire village?

     That night, Garlach dreamed the familiar, hated dream: He was immersed in a storm of cold iron. Jagged edges tore at his flesh and the blood filling his mouth had a bitter metallic tang. His lungs struggled against the suffocating, chill weight; his hope of drawing a next breath stretched into an eternity of fear.