| The Hero of Twilight - Jason J Sergi |
Chapter One
The Knight Comes
Winter was a slow time for the village-folk of Millstand, and no one felt that slowness more than Bathmal Arined.
Alone, he ran through the blustery snowdrifts that scudded in between the tall snow mounds that rose up along the
outskirts of the village. Ice crystals sparkled on his heavy fleece cloak and gloves, and crusted on his well-made
homespun shirt and trousers. His thick boots—made from durable boiled leather—were completely encased in frozen
clumps as he crunched through the ankle-deep snow.
The frigid windblasts numbed his exposed face, turning his pale, smooth cheeks a blushing red and freezing the snot
that ran from his nose to solid flakes so that it crusted his bare upper lip.
Bathmal didn’t mind the cold or the snot at all.
Out here—with the tight cluster of single-story buildings that comprised Millstand far behind him and out of sight—he
was completely alone in a blank world of snow and ice, free to use his imagination to paint his surroundings however
he sought; his mind full of the fantastic stories he’d overheard Elder Lorebud telling the other children of the village
each night as he sat outside in the cold, shivering by the inn’s hide-covered door.
During those nights, he would peek in during the climatic parts of the stories, when Elder Lorebud’s voice would rise
to a wild pitch, arms waving madly, the glow from the fire-pit casting flickering shadows on the captivated faces of
the children while their parents looked on fondly from the back wall, arms locked in loving embraces.
Bathmal relived those stories now, amid the tall snow mounds, lost on mysterious seas and within magical lands
where he was the hero, or the explorer, or the villain, and he battled scores of monsters, or led pirate raids on
unsuspecting cargo vessels, or saved the beautiful maiden from the grips of an evil tyrant. Out here, the tedious life of
Millstand didn’t exist, and Bathmal liked that immensely.
He ran up a snowy rise, his breath misting before him, temporarily obscuring his vision. He topped the mound and
scanned the white plains below. Snow gusts marched across the flat expanse like giant wraiths. Above, the sky was
pale aqua and the fiery white ball of the sun was sinking fast towards the western horizon. It would be dark soon, and
the night’s chill would force him to return to the village.
But he still had some time left.
Knotting his brow and raising his imaginary sword high, he charged down slope, bellowing a fierce war cry, prepared
to rid the land of the fictitious snow beasts that haunted the plains below.
His heroic quest was suddenly interrupted when a quarter of the way down his boot caught on a rouge ice chunk and
sent him sprawling, face first, into the snow to slide ungracefully down the rest of the way. Powdery coldness
invaded his nostrils and mouth, painfully chilling his teeth and gums.
Thoroughly aggravated, he stood, swallowing melted snow and dusting himself off as a strong wind gust blew his
cloak back, making his eyes water. He turned away from the gust and blinked the blur from his eyes.
Bathmal suddenly felt tired, too cold, and unmotivated. He decided to end his mock adventuring for the day and return
to the village—dreaded as that reality was.
As he turned to head for Millstand, something to the north caught his eye. He had to squint through the glare to make
out the two dark shapes that were advancing behind curtains of blowing snow. His heart leapt under his shirt as he
half-feared the fictitious snow beasts he’d been fighting had somehow been summoned to life. Or, perhaps, he had
inadvertently awaken some long slumbering devil from the buried mill ruins that lay close by, and most in Millstand
believed to be haunted; even Elder Lorebud.
However, as the shapes neared, he was able to discern more details, though his heart didn’t race any less; in fact, he
thought it might have sped up a notch or two.
Riders!
Bathmal stood, frozen in place, trying to figure if his eyes were playing tricks, or if there really were riders coming
toward him from behind the curtains of blowing snow. But the more he stared, he figured the answer to be the latter,
for the riders grew larger the closer they came, and now he could hear the horses’ hooves as they punched through
the dense snow.
Who would want to be traveling the northern plains in the middle of winter? he thought frantically. What reasons
could anyone possibly have?
Fell reasons, Bathmal was sure.
The only people who ever came to Millstand were ore traders and petty merchants, and even then only during the
summer months—and never on horses! Oxen and mules pulled wagons and wares, and in the decade and a half of
Bathmal’s life, he’d never once seen anyone riding a horse, even during the handful of times he had actually seen the
animals; and those owned by good-to-do farmer’s who used them only as cart horses.
The riders were mere palms away. Bathmal wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t respond to his mind’s pleas to bolt.
His breath puffed out in billowing gray clouds before him, his mouth went dry, making his throat constrict so that he
was unable to cry out for help; not that anyone could hear him this far out from the main village. There was little he
could now but accept his fate, whatever it may be.
The horse in the lead was massive: a creature from legend, covered completely in copper-hued barding, the champron
curving out at the top of the horse’s head and down under its lower jaw to make a miniature half-moon. Copper bands
marched down the huge neck and covered chest, flanks, and hindquarters. The rider was dressed similarly, in copper-
colored armor, half-moon helmet concealing the face, and a long, inky robe with crimson lining, blowing back from
wide shoulders.
Horse and rider obscured Bathmal’s view of the other they suddenly came to a skidding stop above him; the horse
snorting angrily as it stomped its hooves, spraying him with snow.
Bathmal had to crane his neck to look up at the rider. The armored being seemed to study him for a few short
moments before reaching up with a gauntleted hand and parting the double doors of the helmet’s visor, revealing a
thick gray mustache and huge, bushy eyebrows set on a pink, wrinkled face. Piercing blue eyes stared down at
Bathmal in annoyance.
“Ho! Boy!” the man bellowed, his breath punching the air with silver mist. “Dressed in those white furs, as you are, I
didn’t see you until Mondock here almost plowed you with a hoof!” He paused for a moment. “Are you well, boy?
Your face is paler than the surrounding snow!”
“You’re a Vorcikian Knight!” Bathmal ignored the knight’s inquiries about his health in his excitement. He bowed
awkwardly, not knowing the exact protocol when meeting a real knight, but it seemed the right thing to do since that’
s what people always did in the stories.
The knight laughed and turned in his saddle towards his companion. “Do you see this, Nojo? We had to travel almost
a thousand leagues before we found someone who remembers such antiquated practices such as manners and
respect! And a young, peasant boy at that!”
“Very interesting, Sir,” the one called Nojo said in a flat, uninterested voice.
Bathmal couldn’t see the speaker, still hidden behind the knight’s massive horse.
“What’s your name, boy?” the knight asked next.
“Bathmal Arined.”
“Well to meet you, Bathmal. My name is Sir Odon Wormor, Knight of the Order of Vorcikia—as you have already
deduced—and this here,” the knight stepped his horse aside to reveal his companion, “is my loyal con-squire Nojo.”
Nojo nodded politely from the saddle.
Bathmal’s jaw dropped as he stared at the con-squire. He’d only heard of such things from stories: magical constructs
that were brought to life by mysterious powers; ever protective of the knights they were sworn to serve, and Bathmal
couldn’t believe he was seeing one right now!
Like the knight and his horse, Nojo and its mount were garbed in the same copper-colored armor, complete with half-
moon helmet and champron, though theirs were much smaller than the knight’s and his warhorse. Even so, it was still
Bathmal’s first time seeing a non-living thing…alive, and he was having trouble taking his eyes away.
“What brings a young lad out into the middle of this blasted tundra?” Sir Odon asked, finally breaking Bathmal’s
attention away from the con-squire. “Are you a master scout? Tracking down a fugitive of the kingdom?”
Bathmal smiled at the jest. “I’m hardy that.” He lowered his head. “I’m just a village peasant and a bastard. I work the
fields during the warm months.”
“Don’t hang your head, boy.” Sir Odon frowned through the open visor. “Bastard is a title you received through no
merit of your own and is nothing to be ashamed of. Many a bastard have become knights, and many have become
Great Knights. You earn your own titles, boy!”
Bathmal perked up a little at the mention of bastards becoming knights. His whole life he’d been told he would only be
a peasant grain farmer, like his mother, nothing more—couldn’t be anything more.
“Yes, sir,” was all he could think to say.
“Is your village close, boy?” the knight asked. “It’s been leagues since I’ve had a warm meal and a bed. If I recall,
there was a village not too far from here. Now, what was the name…”
“Millstand,” Bathmal said. “It’s about a quarter league to the south, sir.”
“Yes! And does that little inn still stand in the village center?”
“It does,” Bathmal said. “I can take you there if you like?”
“I would be most grateful, boy!”
The Knight Comes
Winter was a slow time for the village-folk of Millstand, and no one felt that slowness more than Bathmal Arined.
Alone, he ran through the blustery snowdrifts that scudded in between the tall snow mounds that rose up along the
outskirts of the village. Ice crystals sparkled on his heavy fleece cloak and gloves, and crusted on his well-made
homespun shirt and trousers. His thick boots—made from durable boiled leather—were completely encased in frozen
clumps as he crunched through the ankle-deep snow.
The frigid windblasts numbed his exposed face, turning his pale, smooth cheeks a blushing red and freezing the snot
that ran from his nose to solid flakes so that it crusted his bare upper lip.
Bathmal didn’t mind the cold or the snot at all.
Out here—with the tight cluster of single-story buildings that comprised Millstand far behind him and out of sight—he
was completely alone in a blank world of snow and ice, free to use his imagination to paint his surroundings however
he sought; his mind full of the fantastic stories he’d overheard Elder Lorebud telling the other children of the village
each night as he sat outside in the cold, shivering by the inn’s hide-covered door.
During those nights, he would peek in during the climatic parts of the stories, when Elder Lorebud’s voice would rise
to a wild pitch, arms waving madly, the glow from the fire-pit casting flickering shadows on the captivated faces of
the children while their parents looked on fondly from the back wall, arms locked in loving embraces.
Bathmal relived those stories now, amid the tall snow mounds, lost on mysterious seas and within magical lands
where he was the hero, or the explorer, or the villain, and he battled scores of monsters, or led pirate raids on
unsuspecting cargo vessels, or saved the beautiful maiden from the grips of an evil tyrant. Out here, the tedious life of
Millstand didn’t exist, and Bathmal liked that immensely.
He ran up a snowy rise, his breath misting before him, temporarily obscuring his vision. He topped the mound and
scanned the white plains below. Snow gusts marched across the flat expanse like giant wraiths. Above, the sky was
pale aqua and the fiery white ball of the sun was sinking fast towards the western horizon. It would be dark soon, and
the night’s chill would force him to return to the village.
But he still had some time left.
Knotting his brow and raising his imaginary sword high, he charged down slope, bellowing a fierce war cry, prepared
to rid the land of the fictitious snow beasts that haunted the plains below.
His heroic quest was suddenly interrupted when a quarter of the way down his boot caught on a rouge ice chunk and
sent him sprawling, face first, into the snow to slide ungracefully down the rest of the way. Powdery coldness
invaded his nostrils and mouth, painfully chilling his teeth and gums.
Thoroughly aggravated, he stood, swallowing melted snow and dusting himself off as a strong wind gust blew his
cloak back, making his eyes water. He turned away from the gust and blinked the blur from his eyes.
Bathmal suddenly felt tired, too cold, and unmotivated. He decided to end his mock adventuring for the day and return
to the village—dreaded as that reality was.
As he turned to head for Millstand, something to the north caught his eye. He had to squint through the glare to make
out the two dark shapes that were advancing behind curtains of blowing snow. His heart leapt under his shirt as he
half-feared the fictitious snow beasts he’d been fighting had somehow been summoned to life. Or, perhaps, he had
inadvertently awaken some long slumbering devil from the buried mill ruins that lay close by, and most in Millstand
believed to be haunted; even Elder Lorebud.
However, as the shapes neared, he was able to discern more details, though his heart didn’t race any less; in fact, he
thought it might have sped up a notch or two.
Riders!
Bathmal stood, frozen in place, trying to figure if his eyes were playing tricks, or if there really were riders coming
toward him from behind the curtains of blowing snow. But the more he stared, he figured the answer to be the latter,
for the riders grew larger the closer they came, and now he could hear the horses’ hooves as they punched through
the dense snow.
Who would want to be traveling the northern plains in the middle of winter? he thought frantically. What reasons
could anyone possibly have?
Fell reasons, Bathmal was sure.
The only people who ever came to Millstand were ore traders and petty merchants, and even then only during the
summer months—and never on horses! Oxen and mules pulled wagons and wares, and in the decade and a half of
Bathmal’s life, he’d never once seen anyone riding a horse, even during the handful of times he had actually seen the
animals; and those owned by good-to-do farmer’s who used them only as cart horses.
The riders were mere palms away. Bathmal wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t respond to his mind’s pleas to bolt.
His breath puffed out in billowing gray clouds before him, his mouth went dry, making his throat constrict so that he
was unable to cry out for help; not that anyone could hear him this far out from the main village. There was little he
could now but accept his fate, whatever it may be.
The horse in the lead was massive: a creature from legend, covered completely in copper-hued barding, the champron
curving out at the top of the horse’s head and down under its lower jaw to make a miniature half-moon. Copper bands
marched down the huge neck and covered chest, flanks, and hindquarters. The rider was dressed similarly, in copper-
colored armor, half-moon helmet concealing the face, and a long, inky robe with crimson lining, blowing back from
wide shoulders.
Horse and rider obscured Bathmal’s view of the other they suddenly came to a skidding stop above him; the horse
snorting angrily as it stomped its hooves, spraying him with snow.
Bathmal had to crane his neck to look up at the rider. The armored being seemed to study him for a few short
moments before reaching up with a gauntleted hand and parting the double doors of the helmet’s visor, revealing a
thick gray mustache and huge, bushy eyebrows set on a pink, wrinkled face. Piercing blue eyes stared down at
Bathmal in annoyance.
“Ho! Boy!” the man bellowed, his breath punching the air with silver mist. “Dressed in those white furs, as you are, I
didn’t see you until Mondock here almost plowed you with a hoof!” He paused for a moment. “Are you well, boy?
Your face is paler than the surrounding snow!”
“You’re a Vorcikian Knight!” Bathmal ignored the knight’s inquiries about his health in his excitement. He bowed
awkwardly, not knowing the exact protocol when meeting a real knight, but it seemed the right thing to do since that’
s what people always did in the stories.
The knight laughed and turned in his saddle towards his companion. “Do you see this, Nojo? We had to travel almost
a thousand leagues before we found someone who remembers such antiquated practices such as manners and
respect! And a young, peasant boy at that!”
“Very interesting, Sir,” the one called Nojo said in a flat, uninterested voice.
Bathmal couldn’t see the speaker, still hidden behind the knight’s massive horse.
“What’s your name, boy?” the knight asked next.
“Bathmal Arined.”
“Well to meet you, Bathmal. My name is Sir Odon Wormor, Knight of the Order of Vorcikia—as you have already
deduced—and this here,” the knight stepped his horse aside to reveal his companion, “is my loyal con-squire Nojo.”
Nojo nodded politely from the saddle.
Bathmal’s jaw dropped as he stared at the con-squire. He’d only heard of such things from stories: magical constructs
that were brought to life by mysterious powers; ever protective of the knights they were sworn to serve, and Bathmal
couldn’t believe he was seeing one right now!
Like the knight and his horse, Nojo and its mount were garbed in the same copper-colored armor, complete with half-
moon helmet and champron, though theirs were much smaller than the knight’s and his warhorse. Even so, it was still
Bathmal’s first time seeing a non-living thing…alive, and he was having trouble taking his eyes away.
“What brings a young lad out into the middle of this blasted tundra?” Sir Odon asked, finally breaking Bathmal’s
attention away from the con-squire. “Are you a master scout? Tracking down a fugitive of the kingdom?”
Bathmal smiled at the jest. “I’m hardy that.” He lowered his head. “I’m just a village peasant and a bastard. I work the
fields during the warm months.”
“Don’t hang your head, boy.” Sir Odon frowned through the open visor. “Bastard is a title you received through no
merit of your own and is nothing to be ashamed of. Many a bastard have become knights, and many have become
Great Knights. You earn your own titles, boy!”
Bathmal perked up a little at the mention of bastards becoming knights. His whole life he’d been told he would only be
a peasant grain farmer, like his mother, nothing more—couldn’t be anything more.
“Yes, sir,” was all he could think to say.
“Is your village close, boy?” the knight asked. “It’s been leagues since I’ve had a warm meal and a bed. If I recall,
there was a village not too far from here. Now, what was the name…”
“Millstand,” Bathmal said. “It’s about a quarter league to the south, sir.”
“Yes! And does that little inn still stand in the village center?”
“It does,” Bathmal said. “I can take you there if you like?”
“I would be most grateful, boy!”
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| WolfSinger Publications |
| Don't Write What You Know; Write What You Care About -- Passionately! |
