Vistariil
Vistariil, come and tell us the story of the Battle at the Bridge! The voice rang clearly through the tavern. Eyes turned to regard the blond man in the doorway.
As you wish, he said. I sure am thirsty. He approached the bar and the tankard waiting for him. He took a long draught. Another. Finally he began.
It was a good few years ago, when I was a younger man. There were troubles in those days and the upstart Warlord was making trouble hereabouts. Do you remember the raids, the murders, the chaos? Well, I had been newly accepted into the City Watch, and there was talk of joining the Guardians, there were a few here in town in those days. it was just talk, it turns out. But we were hard pressed with lawlessness. Is there anyone here who wasnt touched by death or misery in those days? Lets raise a glass in remembrance of those unjustly slain.
He raised is tankard and drained it in one long gulp. He set it down next to the full one bought by one of the listeners. They never grew tired of this story.
But the Sar took pity on us, so he did. He sent us assistance. I remember it well, when the Knights first arrived. Riding at their head was Sir Amory Drummond, newly risen to Knight of the Brazen Banner. Behind rode half a dozen Knights of the Scarlet Banner and a score of men at arms. Tall in the saddle was Sir Amory, resplendent in his fine armor, his banner snapping in the wind. The clamor of his welcome resounded from the town walls.
Vistariil gazed wistfully into the distance, a smile playing across his face as he recalled the splendor, the majesty of that day. He described the procession of soldiers up the road, across the wooden bridge and past the destroyed town gate.
Sir Amory wasted no time, ordering the rebuilding of the town gate, which had been destroyed in a recent Warlord attack. As the youngest of the town guard, I was sent to be his liaison to the City Watch. Morale ran high in the City, where only hours before had been fear and panic. With a new sense of purpose the defenses were strengthened.
His voice trailed off. And then disaster struck.
He had the full attention of his audience now as he took a swig from a fresh tankard of ale. I heard Sir Amory calling out in the night, his first night in town. He had burned the midnight oil preparing for a raid the following day. He intended to waste no time. I found him lying on the floor behind his writing table, frothing at the mouth. The poisoned wine spilled from the goblet at his outstretched hand. He still breathed, but he was quite incapacitated.
Vistariil looked around the tavern at the rapt faces. We did our best to keep it quiet, the Knights and myself. I was sworn to secrecy of course. Nevertheless, rumor started in the city, perhaps started by Warlord spies. Morale sank. The town was ripe for the fall. And the Warlord was ready.
Vistariil paused and stretched, smiling at the taverners surrounding him. The following morning sounded the horns A large force was moving on the city. The gate was still in ruins. It seemed the city was doomed. The Knights of the Scarlet Banner assembled in front of the gate, for it was here that the strike would surely fall, since the river otherwise surrounds our town. They moved methodically, but it was obvious that they were outmatched. The people were in hiding, struck with dread.
The enemy approached with confidence. It seemed they already knew of the attack on Sir Amory. There was an initial skirmish as several dozen lightly armed brigands tried to overwhelm the Knights, but they were thrown back by the valor of the defense.
A few of the town guard manned the wall, some crossbows were added to the defense, but not many. The main enemy force drew nearer.
All at once, however, a cheer rang out from the battlements. Trumpets blared. The town roused itself. Here came Sir Amory himself, resplendent in his plate armor and tall helm striding confidently forth from the ruined gate. He wielded a massive broadsword in both hands as he marched forth to meet the enemy. The two local Guardians of the Shield followed him.
Tear down the bridge!!! he cried. We shall hold them at bay. Do not despair, for this is not the day we meet defeat! If his voice sounded somewhat high pitched, no one noticed. Townsmen ran forth to start dismantling our strong wooden bridge. Sir Amory stood his ground in front of the bridge, flanked by his Knights and the two Guardians.
They met the onslaught with incredible valor. The press of arms was terrific, and the walls were crowded with onlookers now that hope had returned. Hope, perhaps the most important thing to man.
They fought the enemy to a standstill. Soon each of the valiant defenders bore many small wounds, and one by one they retreated across the bridge. Two of the Knights did fall at the hands of their enemies, Sir Richmond and Sir Ranson. A toast to those valiant slain. He raised his tankard again and drained it, as did those assembled around him.
The work on the bridge was slow, for it had been constructed well. Ultimately the defenders were down to three, Sir Amory and the two Guardians Belote and Percival. The Knights did not employ shields, you see, and so were wounded more quickly. The dead and dying formed mounds around the defense. These three held off the enemy until there was but one plank remaining. Sir Amory ordered the Guardians to retreat. Then, standing alone in front of his assembled enemies, he cried out clearly for the last plank to be torn away. The town was saved, for the enemy had brought no means to cross the river. They had planned on a quick assault, you see.
Sir Amory fought alone, slowly pressed back towards the river. He made one last attack, a flurry of slashes with his mighty sword and when it was over, the chief enemy lieutenant lay gasping as his lifeblood poured from his ruined throat.
Sir Amory himself was pushed into the river from the ruined section of the bridge. His armor made a mighty splash as he was dragged to the bottom. All action stopped as everyone there waited to see his fate. Minutes passed, and hope seemed to fade How could he be alive?
No one in the tavern paid the slightest attention to the front door opening.
Finally, though, a gauntleted hand broke the surface of the water and was immediately seized. He was dragged to shore and safety.
The taverners leaned forward, eager for the next partas they always were. This was why they happily supplied the drinks to Vistariil.
The Guardians shielded the body and pulled off the great helm. Sodden blond hair spilled out as the man coughed forth the river. As the town held its collective breath, the man fought for breath of his own. It seemed that they were willing the armored man to breathe. Ultimately, he did let out a gasp. and was hoisted to his feet to face the cheering town.
But the man in the armor. well, it was me.
Cheers erupted in the tavern as they always did. The story was well known, of course, how young Vistariil had donned the Knights armor with the aid of the Guardians of the Shield and had taken his place in the defense of the bridge.
Then a cold sardonic voice rang out through the tavern, cutting the revelry like a knife. Tell them the rest of your story, Vistariil.
Vistariil looked up as though slapped. His mouth dropped open, and then his eyes dropped away from the face of the man at the door. Quinolon, he muttered.
Yes, Vistariil, tell them about your wasted life, your ruined career, your worthless existence. Tell them how you crawled into a bottle, how you were never accepted into the Knights, or even into the Guardians. Tell them about how you fear, yes fear, he spat the word out with derision to wear armor again. Tell them how you were given a desk job in the Watch out of pity. Tell them how you lost the woman you love to me. A better man.
Vistariil shrank back. Stop, he whispered. Go away.
Go away! mocked Quinolon. What a pathetic worm you have become. You were never worthy of her love, you know.
Vistariil was visibly shaken, his tankard clutched in his hand. He reflexively took a drink. It was then that he noticed the small woman standing behind Quinolon. She was a dark eyed beauty, and seemed uncomfortable.
Amaryl, he said under his breath. Tears brimmed his eyes. She seemed surprised to see him. But there was pity in her eyes too. Pity for him, who was once a hero to the whole town. Hero.
Vistariil gritted his teeth. Decisions that can change a life are made in an instant. Such was the case here. He rose to his full height and stepped towards his adversary. You are right, Quinolon he said, anger filling his voice. I have squandered my days. No more. I will change my destiny. I will set out and become the man I was meant to be.
He slammed the tankard on the bar, spilling some. He stepped confidently towards the door, marching with squared shoulders and newfound purpose. Quinolon shrank back as though menaced with a blow, but Vistariil made no move towards him. He stepped past and with a brief glance at Amaryl left through the tavern door to seek his fortune.
He knew he would be back.
Vistariil, come and tell us the story of the Battle at the Bridge! The voice rang clearly through the tavern. Eyes turned to regard the blond man in the doorway.
As you wish, he said. I sure am thirsty. He approached the bar and the tankard waiting for him. He took a long draught. Another. Finally he began.
It was a good few years ago, when I was a younger man. There were troubles in those days and the upstart Warlord was making trouble hereabouts. Do you remember the raids, the murders, the chaos? Well, I had been newly accepted into the City Watch, and there was talk of joining the Guardians, there were a few here in town in those days. it was just talk, it turns out. But we were hard pressed with lawlessness. Is there anyone here who wasnt touched by death or misery in those days? Lets raise a glass in remembrance of those unjustly slain.
He raised is tankard and drained it in one long gulp. He set it down next to the full one bought by one of the listeners. They never grew tired of this story.
But the Sar took pity on us, so he did. He sent us assistance. I remember it well, when the Knights first arrived. Riding at their head was Sir Amory Drummond, newly risen to Knight of the Brazen Banner. Behind rode half a dozen Knights of the Scarlet Banner and a score of men at arms. Tall in the saddle was Sir Amory, resplendent in his fine armor, his banner snapping in the wind. The clamor of his welcome resounded from the town walls.
Vistariil gazed wistfully into the distance, a smile playing across his face as he recalled the splendor, the majesty of that day. He described the procession of soldiers up the road, across the wooden bridge and past the destroyed town gate.
Sir Amory wasted no time, ordering the rebuilding of the town gate, which had been destroyed in a recent Warlord attack. As the youngest of the town guard, I was sent to be his liaison to the City Watch. Morale ran high in the City, where only hours before had been fear and panic. With a new sense of purpose the defenses were strengthened.
His voice trailed off. And then disaster struck.
He had the full attention of his audience now as he took a swig from a fresh tankard of ale. I heard Sir Amory calling out in the night, his first night in town. He had burned the midnight oil preparing for a raid the following day. He intended to waste no time. I found him lying on the floor behind his writing table, frothing at the mouth. The poisoned wine spilled from the goblet at his outstretched hand. He still breathed, but he was quite incapacitated.
Vistariil looked around the tavern at the rapt faces. We did our best to keep it quiet, the Knights and myself. I was sworn to secrecy of course. Nevertheless, rumor started in the city, perhaps started by Warlord spies. Morale sank. The town was ripe for the fall. And the Warlord was ready.
Vistariil paused and stretched, smiling at the taverners surrounding him. The following morning sounded the horns A large force was moving on the city. The gate was still in ruins. It seemed the city was doomed. The Knights of the Scarlet Banner assembled in front of the gate, for it was here that the strike would surely fall, since the river otherwise surrounds our town. They moved methodically, but it was obvious that they were outmatched. The people were in hiding, struck with dread.
The enemy approached with confidence. It seemed they already knew of the attack on Sir Amory. There was an initial skirmish as several dozen lightly armed brigands tried to overwhelm the Knights, but they were thrown back by the valor of the defense.
A few of the town guard manned the wall, some crossbows were added to the defense, but not many. The main enemy force drew nearer.
All at once, however, a cheer rang out from the battlements. Trumpets blared. The town roused itself. Here came Sir Amory himself, resplendent in his plate armor and tall helm striding confidently forth from the ruined gate. He wielded a massive broadsword in both hands as he marched forth to meet the enemy. The two local Guardians of the Shield followed him.
Tear down the bridge!!! he cried. We shall hold them at bay. Do not despair, for this is not the day we meet defeat! If his voice sounded somewhat high pitched, no one noticed. Townsmen ran forth to start dismantling our strong wooden bridge. Sir Amory stood his ground in front of the bridge, flanked by his Knights and the two Guardians.
They met the onslaught with incredible valor. The press of arms was terrific, and the walls were crowded with onlookers now that hope had returned. Hope, perhaps the most important thing to man.
They fought the enemy to a standstill. Soon each of the valiant defenders bore many small wounds, and one by one they retreated across the bridge. Two of the Knights did fall at the hands of their enemies, Sir Richmond and Sir Ranson. A toast to those valiant slain. He raised his tankard again and drained it, as did those assembled around him.
The work on the bridge was slow, for it had been constructed well. Ultimately the defenders were down to three, Sir Amory and the two Guardians Belote and Percival. The Knights did not employ shields, you see, and so were wounded more quickly. The dead and dying formed mounds around the defense. These three held off the enemy until there was but one plank remaining. Sir Amory ordered the Guardians to retreat. Then, standing alone in front of his assembled enemies, he cried out clearly for the last plank to be torn away. The town was saved, for the enemy had brought no means to cross the river. They had planned on a quick assault, you see.
Sir Amory fought alone, slowly pressed back towards the river. He made one last attack, a flurry of slashes with his mighty sword and when it was over, the chief enemy lieutenant lay gasping as his lifeblood poured from his ruined throat.
Sir Amory himself was pushed into the river from the ruined section of the bridge. His armor made a mighty splash as he was dragged to the bottom. All action stopped as everyone there waited to see his fate. Minutes passed, and hope seemed to fade How could he be alive?
No one in the tavern paid the slightest attention to the front door opening.
Finally, though, a gauntleted hand broke the surface of the water and was immediately seized. He was dragged to shore and safety.
The taverners leaned forward, eager for the next partas they always were. This was why they happily supplied the drinks to Vistariil.
The Guardians shielded the body and pulled off the great helm. Sodden blond hair spilled out as the man coughed forth the river. As the town held its collective breath, the man fought for breath of his own. It seemed that they were willing the armored man to breathe. Ultimately, he did let out a gasp. and was hoisted to his feet to face the cheering town.
But the man in the armor. well, it was me.
Cheers erupted in the tavern as they always did. The story was well known, of course, how young Vistariil had donned the Knights armor with the aid of the Guardians of the Shield and had taken his place in the defense of the bridge.
Then a cold sardonic voice rang out through the tavern, cutting the revelry like a knife. Tell them the rest of your story, Vistariil.
Vistariil looked up as though slapped. His mouth dropped open, and then his eyes dropped away from the face of the man at the door. Quinolon, he muttered.
Yes, Vistariil, tell them about your wasted life, your ruined career, your worthless existence. Tell them how you crawled into a bottle, how you were never accepted into the Knights, or even into the Guardians. Tell them about how you fear, yes fear, he spat the word out with derision to wear armor again. Tell them how you were given a desk job in the Watch out of pity. Tell them how you lost the woman you love to me. A better man.
Vistariil shrank back. Stop, he whispered. Go away.
Go away! mocked Quinolon. What a pathetic worm you have become. You were never worthy of her love, you know.
Vistariil was visibly shaken, his tankard clutched in his hand. He reflexively took a drink. It was then that he noticed the small woman standing behind Quinolon. She was a dark eyed beauty, and seemed uncomfortable.
Amaryl, he said under his breath. Tears brimmed his eyes. She seemed surprised to see him. But there was pity in her eyes too. Pity for him, who was once a hero to the whole town. Hero.
Vistariil gritted his teeth. Decisions that can change a life are made in an instant. Such was the case here. He rose to his full height and stepped towards his adversary. You are right, Quinolon he said, anger filling his voice. I have squandered my days. No more. I will change my destiny. I will set out and become the man I was meant to be.
He slammed the tankard on the bar, spilling some. He stepped confidently towards the door, marching with squared shoulders and newfound purpose. Quinolon shrank back as though menaced with a blow, but Vistariil made no move towards him. He stepped past and with a brief glance at Amaryl left through the tavern door to seek his fortune.
He knew he would be back.
