Sir Veritas Part IV

Sir Veritas lead down a flight of stares and around a corner into a dark and sooty room. The forge was long cold and the smith had not been in residence for a number of years. He had moved to the hamlet because the knights had ceased to bring him work, preferring to let their weapons rust and their shields mold, then bother walking down the steps to the smithy.
Sir Veritas turned to Sir Yuvan and asked for his sword. The weapon was ancient and honorable, but the blade was badly rusted. “Where did you get this blade?”

“It was given to me by one of the other knights…when I first arrived I had a fine and shining sword. I thought to defend justice and honor with it, but one of the older knights took a fancy to my sword and forced me to trade it for that one.”

Sir Veritas grunted. “The old fool didn’t know what he was doing.” His smile grew as he held the sword in his hand. “You have had the better part of the bargain, for this is Durendal, the sword of the brave Sir Roland. You posses one of the greatest swords of the ages. Let me teach you to clean it…and use it.” The rest of the morning was spent cleaning and sharpening swords and lances. Sir Yuvan polished his armor and waxed his shield, he re-tipped his arrows and sharpened and oiled his sword. At last he completed the tasks given him by Sir Veritas, who had spent his morning in one of the corners of the forge working…on what Sir Yuvan did not know. He walked toward the older knight.

“I have completed the tasks given me.” He said. “All my weapons are prepared and all my armor is oiled, I am ready to ride with you, into whatever doom shall be ours.”

Sir Veritas turned to him, his eyes squinted and a grim smile on his face. “Our doom is best left for future conversation. But come, I have made you one final piece that you must wear.” With that he lifted a helm from the bench at which he sat. The burnished steel shown in the light of the forge, and the white wings on the sides burned like fire. There were two long ear guards and a center nose guard, but no visor sat over the top. “You too will ride with eyes open and view clear. It is only in the light of the sun that we find our place. The fools who wear visors always assume that the world is as it should be…You will see it as it is and fight to make it as it should be!”

The young knight reached forward and took the helm from Sir Veritas hand’s, he looked on it for a moment before slipping it onto his head. The look on his face changed as it settled over his brow. He shook his head and then, with a smile drew his sword from its sheath. He lifted it to his face and saluted the knight that stood before him. “Now teach me to use these weapons and I will ride to any fate!”

That evening was spent in training as the morning was spent in preparation. Sir Yuvan’s hands had forgotten their skill and his arms their strength, for he had spent too long sleeping in the hall of the castle; but with the help of Sir Veritas he began to renew his strength and cunning. He trained long into the night and his arms were weary and pained when he finally stopped to rest. Sir Veritas lead him back to the giant hall and into the quite chapel in which he had spent the night. The comforts of bed and hearth were not offered to the guest, for the lord was greatly displeased with the truth spoken to him, so the chapel remained the only place of welcome for the old and venerable knight. Here he and the youth rested, waiting in the dark for the dawning of a new day and the adventures it would bring.

The morning came and the castle stayed as dead as a tomb, its inhabitants sleeping in a drunken stupor in the main hall, their hands still clutching the goblets from which they drank and the ham bones on which the chewed. Sir George was standing on the daze, his voice roaring into the quite before him. “Wake, You FOOLS! Wake and drive the old knight from my castle!” His noisome entireties were met by snores and grunts.

“He already killed one of us.” Mumbled one of the knights, his eyes turning to were a dark red dust made the shape of a pool on the floor. “We don’t have enough men to stand up to such a man. If you hire a couple more men we could kick him out just fine…”

“I cannot believe this!” The rage was evident. “I pay twenty good knights, men who are to protect me and care for my land and you find yourselves in-capable of driving one man away!”

“Well, its not really just one man…after all Sir…”

“I’ve had ENOUGH!” Sir Georges face went from red to purple as he yelled. “Out! Out of my house you fools, be gone from my lands and holdings! You are all relieved of your knighthood and possessions!”

The knights turned to each other, their faces breaking into evil grins. They laughed and went back to their drinking. One, the guard who had failed to face Sir Veritas the night before spoke for the group. “If you cannot kick one knight from your home, how do you think to kick out twenty?”

“In fact, what is to keep us from killing you and ruling this land in your name?” sneered another. “It’s not as though you had other protectors now, is it?” The two knights rose to their feet and began stalking toward the daze. These two had drunk less than the others and were therefore more dangerous. “We’ll see just how brave the ‘good’ Sir George really is.”

Yet, before their feet had touched the first step of the daze they herd a sound of movement behind them, and the rasp of metal on leather. “You would kill a lord in his own hall?” The voice was quite yet menacing. “You would make yourselves worse villains than you already are?”

The two men turned to a small forgotten door into the great hall and there, in shinning mail with open helm upon their heads stood two knights, their carriage speaking of war and valor and their hands grasping swords. “Come and meet your doom!”
With the united cry of “Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam!” the two knights stepped forward their swords raised in the salute of death. The two villains by the daze fell first, the one’s head rolling on the floor in the corner, the other split down the stem from helm to heart. The two knights then turned their attention of the men who remained about the table, trying to stumble to their feet and grasp weapons. Within moments the struggle had ended and all the false knights lay dead or dying, their blood etching the dust covered floor in patterns and pools of red. Sir George stared at carnage before him, his eyes wide with the fear of death and his nostrils expanding at the smell of blood. He turned his eyes toward the two who stood in the midst of the bloody and mangled seen, their eyes already seeking his.

“Come.” There was no question in Sir Veritas voice. “You are now beholden to us, and in payment for your life you will ride out into you land with us. You will know the danger in which your people live and you will set it right!” The knight’s eyes sought the floor again.

“It seems I have no choice. Very well, let us ride.” With that he turned and walked into his study, “My armor is here.” The brave knights ascended the daze and entered the study. They walked with Sir George through the study and into his chamber. On a stand near the wall stood a coat of arms, its pieces polished and shined and the sword sharpened and well cared for. Sir Veritas turned to look at the old knight.

“You have prepared, it seems, to ride out after all.”

“I was never unprepared. I may be fat and I may know that my land is in good order, but I am not so much of a fool as you think. Here I have prepared a suit of armor that has long been in my family and often has seen service for the lords of this castle. I will ride forth wearing it now.” He began to put on the armor, one piece at a time. At last he was dressed in mail as a knight should be. He reached out now and took the helm that rested on the stand, not a helm of the type he had lately worn, but one that had no visor. On the sides rested wings that stood out from the helm, their spread feathers adding size and terror to the lion’s head that burned on the fore of the ancient piece. “This was my father’s helm. He often told me only to wear it in the most important of battles, for it is meant for war and honor.”

“Your father was a man of great honor; and he wore that helm on every ride I ever accompanied him on.” Spoke Sir Veritas. “It was not that the helm should be saved for special occasions, but rather that all battles, even if insignificant by histories standards, are to be fought with honor and courage. But come, we must up and ride for there is much to set right in this land.”