A Bastard Slain

[Birdnerdy 1539]

A BASTARD SLAIN

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PYI09PMNazw

 

 

10th of the First Seed, 1531

 

    From atop the windswept peaks of Saltstone, the low hum of one thousand voices served as the telltale undertone to an immense gathering. The grandiose feasting hall was hazy with smoke as errant servants scurried between tables carrying platters heavy with roasted meats. A slender minstrel strummed at his oaken lute and narrated a long-drawn ballad, but the story he sang would be scarcely heard by the crowd of revelers that indulged in the eve’s festivities.

 

    A disguised figure, unassuming in appearance as he made his approach, weaved past the throngs of merrymakers with an intent deliberation to his step.  The simple mask that covered his face rendered him unobtrusive, unrecognized - a wolf loping between a vast herd of sheep. Despite the mask that hid his identity, the man’s attire could not conceal his purpose. He donned the simple garb of a soldier in contradiction to the opulent robes and gaudy frocks that surrounded him, for his craft was war, and the war he fought had not yet ended.

 

    The man stalked past swaths of drunken courtiers as he scanned the crowd, piercing gaze searching the countless masked faces in fruitless scrutiny. His gauntlet-clad hands trembled displeasedly, and in desperation he found himself whirling around, lost in a maze of faces and smoke. The thinly-veiled mask of civility he wore was torn away in that moment, and with a sudden flurry of movement he clambered atop one of the tables, standing tall above the crowd.

 

    “ADRIAN DE BAR!”

 

    Shouting from atop his lungs, voice heady with brazen pride, the man bellowed the name of the man he had sought to track down for so long. He spread his arms wide and glanced around the hall, the buzz of conversation grinding to a halt at his sudden and abrupt roar of indignation. He could feel countless pairs of eyes watching him presently, and after clearing his throat he spoke once more.

 

    “Adrian de Bar,” the man began, his bitingly acrid voice ushering the crowd of onlookers to a murmur, “I have come to issue a challenge. I have come to take my recompense, by way of a duel. A duel settled by blood, be it mine or yours. I challenge you to come forth!”

 

    “Here I stand.”

 

    The masked interloper standing upon the table snapped his attention to the familiar voice that answered him, and from the sea of masks he sighted a figure broad of shoulder and raven-haired approaching. The challenger all but shook at the sight of this deplorable man, his blood hot with anger as the crowd parted to make way for him. This was the devil that plagued him with every waking moment, the vile wretch whom he slew every night in his dreams, the kinslaying beast responsible for the unending woe that gripped him for every moment that passed.

 

    He had finally come forth.

 

    Involuntarily the challenger gripped his blade, and in a brief flash of steel he drew the saber to elicit scattered gasps throughout the crowd. With a shaking hand he leveled the sword at the man below him, his wild eyes like those of a feverish animal.

 

    “Take off your mask, Adrian de Bar!”

 

    At his shrill cry, the nobleman brought up a gloved hand and removed his disguise, but the man still knew that his was a false face. He could see through his deception, his connivery. The man before him was no man, but a devil in man’s garb; a reptile, a monster. The mere sight of him brought him to a scalding rage, and only by the tight leash of honor did he not strike down Adrian de Bar where he stood.

 

    “I accept your challenge, blackguard,” came his foe’s crisp response, and at once the challenger was awash with the promise of victory. He had come far to seek out the fiend, and by his hand he would be slain. He looked down at the man from atop the table, and he knew that he would win.

 

    “Come forth, then.”

 

---

    The harsh winds that had for centuries shaped the rocks of Saltstone beat down on the towering, seaside castle, and a great audience gathered to watch as the pair of men readied themselves for the melee to come. Standing a few paces from the villain he had come to slay, the man near broke loose of honor’s bindings once more, but he would not stoop to such a sordid act when the clansmen of old watched from above.

 

    The thick gaggle of onlookers whispered eagerly amongst themselves as they looked down at the precarious balcony on which the pair would fight. A chamberlain stood between the two combatants, presiding over the pair with a dignified stateliness. He panned his gaze to the masked fighter, before he spoke loud enough to be heard over the wailing winds.

 

    “You there! Why have you come to seek recompense? Whose blood is it you seek to avenge?”

 

At the chamberlain’s inquiry the challenger stiffened, and in the recesses of his mind he remembered why he had ventured so far to find Adrian de Bar. The image of a golden-haired youth, valiant and noble, flashed before him, and he uttered his next words with teeth bared in a snarl.

 

    “A brother.”

 

    The chamberlain nodded in meek understanding, before he paced back to give the fighters ample breadth. Adrian de Bar  stood waiting with a calm poise, but even as the challenger’s eyes weighed his opponent he could not be afraid. True it may have been that de Bar far outsized the challenger, but any vestige of fear was long gone from the man’s heart.

 

    The challenger sucked in an icy breath, and just as the chamberlain opened his mouth to speak there came an outburst of cries from afar, strained with terror.

 

    “Undead!”

 

    “They’ve breached the walls!”

    “All fighting men to the gates!”

 

    All at once the crowd scattered, and in the distance the challenger could hear the tumultuous uproar of a fierce onslaught. But he had not come to fight this new foe; the enemy of his unending war stood before him presently, and he would take not one step back.

 

    “Plough the undead,” he roared, and he took his saber in an iron grip. The wind had stopped atop the castle’s peak, and the skies had parted to grace the pair with the fleeting warmth of sunlight. “Come forth!”

 

    Adrian de Bar surged onwards at his challenge, and the man met him bravely with a practiced swing. He checked aside blow after blow in the frenetic clash that followed, and the sweet song of steel on steel rang and rang again over the castle’s peak as the pair fought.

 

    For every time their blades met, the man’s hands shook in exertion and soon his breath began to show in the cold air, but he would not lose to the menace that fought him. He paced back with a frantic tread as de Bar pushed his assault, but in a moment of lucidity the man saw his opportunity and seized it.

 

    Screaming, the masked challenger sent his sword for de Bar’s sword arm in a swift jab, and his blade found sweet purchase as it pierced his wrist. The nobleman winced as his sword fell to the ground, clattering on the stones with a grim tone of finality. The pair locked eyes.

 

    He had him, but in that moment he felt naught but frustration. He would not win dishonorably. It would not mean victory if he slew the man as he stood before him empty handed; it would not avenge his brother.

 

    “Pick up your sword!” he shrieked, and the robust nobleman crouched to retrieve his fallen weapon. When he found his fury and came forth a second time, the challenger shrunk under his flurry of steel, receding back towards the balcony. His strength was waning against the man’s conditioned strikes. The sweet victory he had longed to taste was growing ever distant, and as he retreated he struck a parry a half-second too late.

 

    Adrian de Bar’s sword struck true in a final blow, and staggering drunkenly the man backpedaled towards the tower’s ledge. Blood welled beneath his jerkin, and with an expression bordering on simple disappointment he looked down to the spreading stain on his breast. The bitterness of defeat coursed through him, and as he held himself up his false face slid off, clattering to the floor.

 

    Unmasked, the visage of Holy Ser Marius Baruch contorted in a final, sorrowful grimace. He soundlessly cursed Adrian de Bar with a lifeless glare, before he went tumbling backwards off the ledge into the open air. Met with silence as he plummeted from the tower, Ser Marius found one last moment of peace as the cruel seas rushed up to meet him from far below.

 

 

---

 

No man can say with certainty to what realm of eternity the soul of the slain Marius would find its rest. Perhaps, his many deeds as a soldier fighting in God’s name would earn him an honored place in the Seven Skies.

 

Yet again, his many sins, indulgences, and rather hedonistic tendencies may have dragged him down to Hell.

 

Perhaps neither fate befell him.

 

Perhaps,

 

Should you be lucky enough to tread the paths of the dead,

 

You might see a lone figure, garbed in a simple tunic of wool,

 

Somewhere in the delicate balance Between,

 

Tending a watch-fire on the edge of a vast darkness,

 

Safeguarding the ways of old,

 

Staying the hand of the Night

 

Credits go to NiceGuyNorman for this writing.

 

Edited November 1, 2015 by Birdnerdy

[yopplwasupxxx 5946]

"As is the darkness that comes before - 'twas a pleasure, ol' friend."

 

"Lux Invicta."

Edited October 31, 2015 by yopplwasupxxx

[Ark 2835]

Karl Barbanov welcomes him into the Seven skies, offering him a drink the moment he crosses that threshold. 

[Flapman 625]

Lerald sighs and shakes his head when word reaches him about Marius' fate.

"Rest in peace old brother..." he mutters as he puts another log on the fire and warms his hands over it.

[Church of the Canon 230]

Everard sighs, readying a funeral ceremony.

[Elad™ 560]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.