The Medievals 1, page 5
part #1 of The Medievals Series
The Eternal Voice: “The Runes had grown beyond their borders, occupying lands reserved for others. And when King Avedon refused their trespass, the Runes waged war.”
The Runic warrior boils with rage as he points his javelin at King Avedon and yells, “May the heart of the Earth beat with the blood of mankind!”
BRRUM! BRRUM! BRRUM! BRRUM! BRRUM!
The drumbeats come loud and fast now, announcing the entrance of the two rival armies, which spill out of the tunnels on either side of the field.
On one side, a cavalry of armour-clad knights speed toward the center of the arena, swords unsheathed, their steel visors glowing in the moonlight. Their horses thunder across the field, the pounding hooves mixing with the beating of the drums, making it sound as if one hundred horses are one thousand.
And on the other side, Richard watches the infantry of Runic warriors charge, their legs spitting up dirt as they race toward their enemy, shrieking a battle cry into the air.
Richard has seen many contests and performances in the King’s Arena. His earliest memory of the stadium dates back to when he was only four years old. He sat with his mother and father on the terrace, just like this evening, and watched the Knight’s Cup, an annual jousting competition.
The overwhelming victor that day was Sir Ivanhoe, the King’s most trusted knight for a time, and the first student of Master Cheng. Ivanhoe’s victory at the Knight’s Cup earned him a bust in the Throne Room, along with other Legends of the Realm.
Richard can still remember flashes of that day: King Henry hailing his friend Ivanhoe as the champion; the crowd showering him with applause; Ivanhoe tousling young Richard’s hair, the sun bright behind a hero’s wink.
But nothing before tonight’s reenactment has been as impressive or lifelike as the battle that plays out now. The spectators are in awe as the legion of Runic warriors crashes up against the wall of gleaming knights, the fight joined at the center of the field. Swords clang against shields, and javelins soar through the air. As knights and Runes are struck, they cry out in agony, pretending to take deadly blows. The pain and peril all looks so real on the faces of the actors.
It appears so genuine, in fact, that Richard notices his mother, Queen Soraya, hiding her eyes behind her hands, only daring to look through her fingers at the mock carnage.
His mother leans in to Richard and whispers, “I cannot watch. Tell me when the worst is over.”
She gives him a playful look of horror, and Richard smiles at her.
His mother shared her eyes with Richard at birth: the shape of almonds; the pale color of a blue-rimmed winter sky. Her honeyed skin, however, she kept to herself. It is the kind of skin that always finds the gaze of the sun or the moon, set aglow. Richard’s complexion is fairer, closer to his father’s coloring. And he has his father’s sandy hair, with his mother’s hair once being completely black, although it now reveals thin lines of gray.
With her darker skin and hair, Richard’s mother has a rare appearance within the kingdom. And Richard knows that this is because she is not of the kingdom. Instead, his father met his mother while on a diplomatic voyage to the distant Lands of the East. (It was during this same months-long voyage that his father befriended Jun Cheng in the Silk Lands, and invited him into his service to train the knights of the Lead Guard.)
And while Richard has inherited the physical qualities of his father and mother equally, Richard has always suspected that his gentle, more sensitive spirit comes more from his mother than his father.
When, once, he mentioned this notion to his mother, she responded: “The Prince is his mother’s son; the King, his father’s.”
Suddenly, the massive crowd jeers, drawing Richard’s attention back to the field.
Riding high on one of the horses is a Rune unlike the others. This is the Master Rune. He has a headdress of black feathers, with a cloak to match. His face is marked by crimson war paint. As he advances through the fray, his horse moving no faster than a walk, the Master Rune seems unaffected by the threats around him. He is an island of menacing calm in a sea of death and terror.
Richard knows this is fake. The Master Rune is merely a team of actors in costume. It is a well-crafted play. But still, the hairs on the back of Richard’s neck lift off his skin at the sight of the feathered demon.
In the midst of the battle, one of the knights approaches the Master Rune, ripping a sword from his scabbard. The Master Rune hurls a javelin at the advancing knight, but the knight dodges, the javelin sailing over his head. The crowd cheers for the knight, who continues to bear down on the Rune.
But then the crowd’s cheers are caught in their throats as something impossible happens. The Rune’s javelin, now ten feet beyond the knight, stops completely.
And it hangs there in the middle of the night air.
The Master Rune’s lips curl into a wicked grin as he holds out his hand, turning his fingers in the air before him. And as he does so, the javelin also turns in mid-air, coming to a stop when its steel tip is pointed directly at the confounded knight. Then, the Master Rune closes his fingers into a fist, and the javelin flies back toward the knight, catching him in his breastplate, sending him to the ground.
How is this possible?
Richard has seen impressive performances in this arena before, but never with such verisimilitude. From the pages of his history book, Richard knows that Runes had magical powers that allowed them to control objects with their minds. But Richard cannot understand how actors playing a Rune could stop a javelin in mid-air using this same magic.
And then Richard sees it: a thin wire hiding in the shadows outside the light of the bonfire. It runs the length of the field, hanging above the heads of the actors. In fact, there are three thin wires in all running the length of the field, connecting to poles on either side, with almost invisible stagehands, cloaked in black, operating the pulley system.
Richard smiles. Master Cheng thinks of everything.
The crowd applauds. Not for the Master Rune’s momentary victory, but for the artistry behind the illusion of the floating javelin.
On the battlefield, The Endless War rages on, with javelins now flying through the air across the hidden wires. With their magical powers, the Runes clearly have the upperhand. King Avedon surveys the battlefield grim-faced from atop his majestic horse. To the King’s dismay, a fresh wave of Runic warriors alights from the tunnels, reinforcing the Runes already in the heat of battle.
The Eternal Voice: “Seeing the inevitable defeat of his army, King Avedon called on the Sorcerer of Light…”
King Avedon brings an animal horn to his mouth, his lungs blasting into it, releasing a cry for help that echoes across the arena.
A cloud of smoke shoots skyward out of the ground. Richard watches raptly as, stepping from the thick haze, an ancient man reveals himself. He has a sweeping silver beard and an ice-blue robe. In his right hand, he holds a wooden staff. For Richard, this is the best part of the story.
“The Great Merlin appeared on the battlefield,” says the Eternal Voice. “And King Avedon beseeched the sorcerer to change the tides in their favor. So with his staff, Merlin used all of his power to create a new weapon of war.”
Standing there on the field, the actor playing Merlin slams his eyes shut as he pretends to draw a vast power into his body, his voice shaking. Then, Merlin seems to channel the energy into the crooked timber of his magical staff, his arms vibrating as they try to control it.
The thundering clang of a tin drum sounds, and then the bonfire seems to strike at the sky, flames shooting up momentarily, distracting the audience from Merlin before the fire settles down once again. When the crowd looks back to Merlin, all of the knights that were around him have dropped to the ground, their bodies now covered in black cloaks. It looks as though shadows have stained the field where the knights once stood.
Now, a drumbeat starts low and ominous. And as the drumbeat grows, the shadows on the field grow with it.
The Eternal Voice: “This new weapon of war was a beast with the origins of man…”
Richard can see the anticipation swelling in the eyes of the audience as the dark cloaks continue to rise, something inhuman unfolding beneath.
“...combined with the power and strength of a dragon.”
The cloaks fall to the ground just as the Eternal Voice announces: “They were called saurians.”
Richard marvels at the costumes for the saurians, which brilliantly capture the reality of the creatures that Richard has read about in his books. The skin that is a reptilian leather. The wings that unfold between their shoulder blades. Their evil snarls, cavernous and odious.
The crowd once again applauds Master Cheng’s artistry.
The Sorcerer of Light then commandingly points his staff at the army of Runes; and with their orders received, the saurians attack. Some saurians bound toward the defensive lines on their feet; while others seem to fly acrobatically through the air (launched from springboards built into the ground).
The defeat is almost instant, with Runes falling to the ground, screaming in agony as they die. The saurians save the Master Rune for last, the entirety of their numbers descending upon him all at once. The saurians circle the Master Rune, hiding him from the audience. As the Master Rune gives a desperate shriek from the center of the circle, all Richard and the audience can see are the black feathers flying into the air. When the saurians disband, the naked body of the Master Rune lies there, lifeless on the field.
King Henry tilts toward Richard and whispers, “I would applaud the saurians’ victory, but history tells me I should not be rooting for the green beasts.” Richard can feel his heart sinking toward his stomach, well aware of the terror that the saurians are about to cause. His father gives him a knowing wink, and then turns back to the drama on the field.
The Eternal Voice: “The saurians quickly vanquished the evil Runes. But the saurians had tasted blood, and they thirsted for more.”
On the battlefield, the saurians turn toward the remaining knights, smacking their lips. Then, the saurians attack the knights.
“Merlin and King Avedon realized that in trying to save the Realm, Merlin had created an untameable monster, and he had hastened the end of mankind. The saurians tore across the Realm, destroying villages.”
On the field, the feral creatures race around the outer edges, snarling at members of the crowd, taunting them and wreaking havoc. Richard sees a frightened young girl scream, her mother pulling her close to her chest to hide her daughter’s eyes from the costumed saurians. He tries to imagine himself at such a young age, knowing that the lifelike beasts would have instilled the same level of fear in him.
The Eternal Voice: “Merlin used every measure of his power to reach across the Earth and call forth the Four Winds.”
Suddenly, all of the saurians begin to whirl around on the field, pretending to be captured by a strong wind. Their bodies spin and spin as they make their way to the center of the field. There, with all of them congregated by the bonfire, the actors in the saurian costumes begin to stack themselves on top of each other, building a pyramid.
“Then Merlin sealed the beasts in stone, creating Mount Saurian.”
The growing stack of saurians begins to resemble Mount Saurian, the very mountain that Richard attempted to climb a fortnight ago.
The Eternal Voice: “And with the kingdom once again safe, King Avedon banished magic and every mystical being from the Realm, exiling them to beyond the hinterlands before erecting the Northern Barrier to keep them out. And to this day, Mount Saurian remains a towering reminder of the dangers of magic, and it is a monument to the knights that died in The Endless War.”
As Master Cheng finishes the narration, the last costumed saurian climbs atop the pyramid, creating the peak of Mount Saurian. With the Eternal Voice’s warnings about the dangers of magic, Richard reaches into his pocket, where he feels the saurian stone that he had taken earlier.
He imagines Merlin’s magic still within the stone after three hundred years. And he wonders what part of the saurian he is now holding. A toe? A finger? A piece of the monster’s heart?
Then, King Henry is on his feet, clapping his hands at the impressive display. And the rest of the crowd is quick to join him. The six torches that rim the arena light up once again, and the King gestures toward the center tower, signalling for Master Cheng to come out.
Reluctantly, the modest Cheng comes from his hiding place and gives a wave to the audience, whose applause grows louder for the director of the stunning performance. Then, Master Cheng throws the applause to the field, where all of the actors gather at its center, shedding their costumes and bowing for the King.
Once the actors are finished bowing, Richard’s father quiets the audience, moving to the front of the terrace, where he holds his hands out. Silence quickly spreads across the crowd, who wait for the words of their King.
When the whispering breeze is the only sound that remains, the King clears his throat: “Down on that field, thanks to Master Cheng, we witnessed an awe-inspiring retelling of a story that lives within our people. The story of our past. But now, at the close of this celebration -- a celebration that some of you have graciously travelled great distances to be a part of -- I am honored and humbled to introduce you to the story of our future.”
The King spreads his arms wide, and Richard can imagine his father’s radiance warming the night air where he stands.
“My countrymen, I present to you the heir to the throne, the next man that shall wield the pen that will write the continuing story of the Realm.”
Richard’s father looks back at him and waves Richard forward. His mother gives him a smile, encouraging him. Richard takes in a deep breath, and then moves to front of the terrace to meet his father.
“People of the Realm, I present to you my son and your future King.”
The arena erupts with thunderous claps and cheers. Never before has Richard heard such a sound. He can feel the loud applause percussing against his ears. Then, a whistle-boom draws his eyes to the sky, where fireworks explode above the arena, compounding the noise. As the clapping continues, Richard just stands there under the riot of color in the sky. He is overwhelmed, not entirely sure what he is supposed to do.
This should be a thrilling moment for Richard. All of these people cheering for him. The people he will one day lead.
And yet, all Richard can think is that these people do not know him. How can they know him when Richard does not even know himself? When he is not yet aware of his purpose other than to support a crown atop his head.
Amid the echoing applause, his father’s words fill his mind: The story of our future. Richard has just witnessed the story of his ancestors. But still the question remains: What story will people tell about him when he is gone?
{Wendolyn}
Her father’s words are half-eaten by the growing wind.
“We must get off the road. We’re too exposed out here,” her father says as he urges Zongshi forward along the westerly path, his lantern driving back the shadows of the unbeatable night.
As they move, her father’s eyes are in constant search of the black sky and the trees that line the trodden path, looking for something following them. Something that has not yet revealed itself. But all around them, a fog is slipping through the alders and the pines like fine silk, making it impossible to know if anything is following them or not.
Wendolyn’s mind is still racing from the vision of the burning cottage, the flames devouring the last five years of her life. She imagines the fire consuming everything that matters to her: her collection of stones from the riverbeds, her lock of hair, that silly piece of string that she wraps around her wrist when she’s nervous or thinking about nothing at all. Those things are all gone.
Why? Why would her father burn their own home to the ground?
While her father had moved her often in her younger years -- building small, hidden homes on the outskirts of different towns -- he has kept her in the Cumbrian mountains long enough that Wendolyn was starting to believe that this move was for good. This was going to be her life. Etan, Landon, Leeta and Galen -- these were going to be her friends for a long time. (At least, they were before they came to fear her.)
She was nearly free of her father’s fixation on solitude and secrecy. Until now.
As her father directs Zongshi deeper into the forest, the night is filled with the sounds of pursuit. And with the milky fog about to swallow them, Wendolyn can feel her life disappearing behind her, with no trail to lead her back.
Desperation stabs through her voice: “Father, what is it? From what terror are we running?”
Her father does not slow as he says, “I’ll explain once I am confident that we are safe.”
But this does not satisfy Wendolyn. Each step forward is a step away from the life she wants, from who she is. So she impulsively leaps from Zongshi, her feet hitting the hard ground.
“Wendolyn!” her father reprimands. “Get back on Zongshi. This is not a game.”
“No,” she says, throwing her spear to the ground. “I want to know now. What is it that you are not telling me? Why are you forcing me to leave our home?”
“Wen, this is not the time to discuss this. We must hurry.”
Her father dismounts from Zongshi and grabs her arm, intending to pull her back onto the horse. But Wendolyn manages to get hold of a thick alder branch, and she grips it as tightly as her fingers will let her.
“Let go of me!”
As her father tries to wrench her away from the tree, Wendolyn concentrates all of her strength into her hands and the length of her arms, holding tightly to the limb.
“If you want to leave, go! But I am staying here!” Wendolyn is forced to yell over the wind, which has risen to a howl.
