Knight's Honor
By Zezii
A warm breeze, redolent of roasted boar, wafted under William Mason's nose as he moved stealthily through the woods, feeling his way carefully in the inky darkness. His small dagger was clutched tightly in his sweaty hand as he crouched down low, listening. Ahead, a twig snapped loudly, and the soft yellow glow of torches illuminated the old trees ahead. He held his breath, every muscle in his body tensed.
The small party, consisting of several knights and a few minor servants, made their way noisily through the forest, some laughing and cracking jokes while others were deathly quiet, obviously irritated at having to be here instead of joining in at the lord's feast. They were here to find the peasant trespassers who routinely stole small game, such as rabbit, from their master's land.
And William was one of those trespassers.
He was well aware of the penalties of pouching wildlife from Lord Winter's private woods; his own brother had been caught two years ago, and he shuddered when he recalled what had befallen his older sibling. But fresh meat was worth the consequences, and his best friend had already killed a squirrel in these forests without being caught.
" There's no one here," one of the servants, an older man with thinning gray hair, announced, the torchlight reflecting off his wrinkled face. His heart beating so hard he could feel it through his ragged tunic, William gripped the dagger's worn hilt, beads of sweat dripping down his burning forehead. There was a long, stretched out silence as the knights considered this, their horses pawing at the ground.
" Come on," a tall, blonde haired knight told the tiny party. William sighed in relief as they passed, their gold torchlight eventually fading away. Wiping his head with the back of his dirty sleeve, William resumed creeping forward, wishing that it wasn't so damn hot.
He still hadn't caught anything when he first heard the strange roar coming from the star-studded sky. Startled, the peasant gazed up just in time to see a shooting star, its long bluish-white tail lighting the purple heavens.
What…?
His mouth gaping wide open, William watched with fascinated interest as the falling star crashed in the hills a few miles from where he was presently standing. A brilliant flash of light erupted as the object hit, hard. He had seen many shooting stars in his life before, but none like this one...
His brownish-red horse whinnied softly as Sir Bartholomew silently cursed the unseasonable heat and the fact that he was out here when a huge feast was currently going on. There's no one stupid enough to be out here, Bartholomew thought, gripping the leather reins in annoyance. But he was too cowardly to say anything; unlike true knights, he despised fighting and deeply feared death. All of his life, he had slyly eluded any type of battle, including the more recent crusades.
So he would wait patiently for someone else to complain before heading back to the lord's manor. Again, his horse neighed softly, uneasily, flicking its furred ears nervously. Something was obviously spooking the animal…
A sudden flash of blinding white light, easily as radiant as the sun, lit up the dark horizon with an unnatural glow. This was quickly followed by a low rumbling, the ground vibrating underneath their feet. Searing heat made the warm summer night even hotter…
Sir Bartholomew's stallion almost tossed him off when it reared up, its front legs thrashing wildly. All around him, the other horses were acting in the same bizarre fashion, nearly crushing the frightened servants that darted around them.
His heart hammered within his chest even as his mouth became painfully dry, sweaty fingers tightening around the reins, Bartholomew inched his horse backwards, the animal's terrified eyes bulging within their sockets.
As the others whispered lowly about the strange occurrence, the bright orange-red glow from the unearthly crash reflected in wide eyes, Sir Bartholomew swallowed slowly and urged his horse in the opposite direction.
The inside of the rectory was dark, the only dim light coming from the single candle atop the dusty desk where Father Gregory sat working diligently, scanning the dusty Latin Bible in front of him, the faded words seeming to move in the flickering pool of light. Sighing, he gently flipped the brittle page, wanting so badly to be back in his native village, to see his family again. His hand sullenly reaching for the silver cross beneath his chiton, his only reminder of home. Sometimes, as sacrilegious as it might have sounded, Father Gregory wished that he had never joined the ministry; he wasn't even sure if he believed there was a God anymore-the memory of his parents' deaths at the unmerciful hands of a rampant plague still haunted him, damaged any real faith that he might have had.
As if in response to his growing doubt, a gigantic explosion rocked the rectory, a stack of tattered books and their rickety bookshelf falling to the stone floor with a loud clatter. Standing, Father Gregory gazed out the arched window at the indigo sky, sewn with millions of jewel-like stars. He gasped when he saw the blinding light in the far distance and collapsed to his knees in fear…
"It was surely a sign of destruction!" One of the older men cried out, his gray eyes scanning the small ring of serfs gathered around. Murmurs of uneasy agreement drifted through the crowd.
"Bah! It was probably just a shooting star," Isaac Baker snapped, folding his large hands across his stained tunic. Everyone looked up to Isaac-literally. He was the tallest person in the village, and the most outspoken. William pushed his way into the crowd, past a filthy woman with a squealing infant, curiosity taking the better of him.
"Shouldn't we inform Lord Winter?" Someone asked from the growing circle.
"He probably has other things on his mind-his wife is returning today," one of Isaac's friends pointed out.
Isaac stepped out into the middle of the ring, heavy jaw squared in determination.
"I don't know about the rest of you," he said, "but I intend to prove the truth-that the strange occurrence was little more than a shooting star. Whether any of you come or stay, I do not care."
Several men, including William stepped forward against the shrill cries of protest from the elders, who warned of this evil sign. Hefting up his pitchfork, the rusted points glittering dully, Isaac replied, "Just ignore them. They are fools."
With farm tools in hand, the tiny group made their way toward the edge of the forest, where the mysterious glow had lit up the sky. William's nose wrinkled at the strong smell as they stepped out of a copse of trees. It reeked of charred grass and …something else. He couldn't be sure as he warily glanced around at the blackened vegetation, where small fires steadily devoured the remaining patches of shrubbery.
"I've never seen a shooting star do this before," Abraham Braithwaite, a young man just out of adolescence, commented, surveying the sea of smoking blackness that had once been a clearing. Isaac was silent, gingerly picking his way toward a twisted tree whose bark was coal black.
He had seen something.
When he reached the tangled tree, the tall man bent over and rubbed something between his fingers, face pinching with an intense emotion. William, dropping the spade from limp fingers, saw now what worried Isaac, the hairs rising straight up on the back of his neck.
A thin river of crimson, glistening in the warm sunlight, dripped down several branches, shallow pools of liquid accumulating at the base of the tree. Icy tendrils of fear gripped his heart when he saw the reason why-a chunk of bloody, unrecognizable meat and bone hung from the higher limbs, dribbling streams of wet blood down the trunk.
Before anyone could react, there was a faint crunching noise, and Abraham was magically lifted up into the air, bright red spilling from his open mouth, twin blades puncturing his chest. Writhing helplessly, the young man's eyes rolled up in his head and he fell unceremoniously to the blackened ground, gurgling.
The bloody blades remained floating in the air as the men raised their weapons, trembling.
Then they were gone.
William backed up, not even realizing that he had stopped breathing. Something urged him to run, and he did-until he tripped over a rock. Turning, his breath coming out in panicked gasps, his saw an oozing gash appear across poor Isaac's middle.
"God-," the tall man hissed between clenched teeth, instinctively grabbing at his torn sides. That was the last word he uttered before his head disappeared in a dark shower of warm blood. William closed his eyes and did not move, his muscles taunt. Something gently bumped into his thigh, and his left eye opened to see Isaac's disembodied head, the hair matted thickly with fluid and the face locked in a shocked expression. Retching, William crawled forward, listening to the dying screams as the men fell, one by one, their blood soaking the burnt grass in grotesque patterns.
A sickening ripping noise resounded behind him, followed by an eerie clicking that echoed around him. He stopped, sucking in a deep breath. Now the only sound was his pounding heart. William's teeth chattered softly within his jaw as he looked out the corner of his eye, praying that whatever had killed those wretched men had not seen him.
Silence.
A round bead of sweat dripped from his nose onto his upper lip as he quivered, straining his ears. Nothing. How long he stayed there, tensed, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that several hours has passed when the lord's knights found him, his leg covered with Isaac's dried blood.
Sir Bartholomew wiped the sheen of sweat from his hot forehead, trying hard not to vomit at the gruesome sight before him. A dozen men, flayed of their skin, hung from the charred trees, hordes of flies feasting on the corpses. No one dared touch them.
"Dear Lord," Sir Jacob mumbled, his freckled face pale.
"What could have done this?" Someone choked out as Sir Bartholomew grimaced at the fetid stink of death, his horse spooked. No one answered, and he bit his lip from crying out in raw terror. No animal would have hung men from ropes, not like this. Not even heathens were this savage…He turned his head slightly, trying in vain to breathe through his mouth. That was when he spotted the prone form ahead whose skin was still on its body.
"You! You there!" He called out, wincing at the tremor in his voice. What a horrible time to be a coward…
It was a serf, his face a mask of horror. The peasant looked up at Sir Bartholomew and his horse with dazed eyes.
"What happened?" The knight instantly demanded. When the startled serf did not answer, Sir Jacob sneered coldly.
"Here is the butcher," he snarled, drawing his sword from its scabbard. Light gleamed off the razor blade as he waved it menacingly over his helmeted head.
"P-please-I-I didn't do it, sir!" The peasant protested meekly, the blanched look on his face giving the knights a second thought. Leaning down on his stallion, Sir Jacob stared at the frightened serf, the harsh expression on his face softening a bit.
"Then who did it?"
"I don't know, sir!"
The answer seemed to annoy Sir Jacob, who motioned to the others with one gauntleted hand.
"We shall bring this serf before Lord Winter," he declared. The others were quiet, and Sir Bartholomew was suddenly glad to get out of this horrid place.
The carriage carrying Lady Winter bounced along the dirt road, jolting its riders. Sighing in annoyance, Lord Winter's rested her chin in one ringed hand and glared at her two maids, simply dressed compared to their wealthy mistress.
"When will we be arriving?" Lady Winter demanded impatiently, pulling aside on of the velvety curtains from the carriage window and peeking outside. Alongside the carriage rode four armed knights on horseback; protection for their lord's wife.
"I do not know, milady," replied the younger maid as another bump rocked them.
Lady Winter narrowed her clear blue eyes and snatched the curtain again with two delicate fingers, preparing to call out to the knights to hurry up. But just as she opened her mouth, just as the closest knight turned his plumed head, sword still in hand, a brilliant blue fireball appeared from nowhere, striking him directly in the lower abdomen. Steel and flesh melted into slag, and suddenly the hot summer air stank of cooked meat.
"Bandits," whispered the youngest maid, terrified.
Gagging, the lady raised her silken handkerchief to her mouth even as the maids screamed out and the dead knight toppled to the ground. The horses pulling the carriage neighed in fright and took off running, dragging the riders with them. Immediately, the remaining knights raised their swords, furiously searching for the source of the flaming fireball.
Another knight shrieked, this one impaled by a long spear, its bloody tip poking out through his back. The maid nearest to Lady Winter passed out in an undignified heap at the same time something huge struck the fleeing carriage, knocking it over on its side. Lady Winter clutched at her seat as she was violently thrown out the window, landing headfirst onto the dirt road. Pain coursed through her cheek, and there was a flash of intense light.
The shooting pain gradually subsided, and the noble woman moaned, tasting coppery blood in her mouth. Using her scraped elbows, she gazed up, blonde-white hair falling in disorganized clumps down her contorted face.
And then she saw it.
It was towering above the mutilated bodies of several of the knights and two horses, larger than any man she had ever seen. Lady Winter gawked helplessly at the monster, noticing the odd skin, mottled green and sickly yellow, the long, oily black braids, and the curved claws on the gloved hands. No, the creature was certainly not a man-she realized that when she saw the string of shiny skulls draped across its thick chest. It turned its helmeted face toward her, the faceplate blank as it snarled, bringing its flat head close to the ground. Crouching, the demon hissed, the peculiar armor on its shoulder swiveling, as if on its own volition.
"My lady! I'll save you!" Shouted one of the knights, his unsheathed sword slicing through the air. Growling, the monster dodged his feeble efforts and swung one armored leg out, catching the knight in his thigh. There was a horrible, sharp snap as the man's leg broke and he collapsed, no longer holding his weapon, screeching in agony. With one massive taloned hand around its enemy's throat, the beast picked up the knight, who repeatedly struck its face-but to no avail.
Choking, the man tried unsuccessfully to pull the thick fingers from his vulnerable neck, until the demon nonchalantly snapped his spine. Dropping the boneless body to the ground, the devil leaned forward, glittering, serrated blades popping out from its speckled wrist. Plunging its weapon into the knight's back, it ripped off the dead man's head and screamed in triumph, dark red blood dribbling down its forearm. Then it turned its attention back to the cowering woman.
"Please, no," Lady Winter pleaded.
"Please, no," the monster repeated, using her voice as it bent down, grabbing her by her lavender surcoat. The rank odor of decay wafted off the giant as it gurgled behind its metallic helmet. Lady Winter gaped at the cord of bone around its chest, noticing that some were human.
She screamed.
His hands clasped tightly behind his back, Lord Winter paced the grand halls of his manor, his boots creating a loud din on the polished stone floors. His face was a mask of impatience as he turned angrily toward one of the servants.
"Where is she?"
"Your wife, my lord?"
"Of course my wife, you imbecile!" He shouted, fat face florid. The servant trembled and backed away from his chubby employer. The lord narrowed his beady eyes and stormed toward the doorway, ranting as he went.
As he entered the main hallway with its colorful tapestries and winding staircases, a group of clanking knights marched toward them, dragging a young serf with them. Lord Winter noticed, with some disgust, the scarlet streaks of caked blood along the boy's leg and the shocked expression on his face.
"What's this peasant doing here?" He spat. The tallest knight, Sir Bartholomew or something likes that, stepped forward, a fearful look on his features. Yes, this was definitely the coward, thought Lord Winter, putting his plump hands on either hip.
"My lord, this lad witnessed a terrible slaying in the woods-," began the knight, lifting his visor. The noble scowled.
"What was he doing in my woods? He should have had his hands cut off, the thief!" There was no mercy whatsoever in the voice.
"But sir, something fell from the sky and killed my friends," William spoke up, his face a deathly white.
"Just punishment for thieves," Lord Winter hissed.
"But there is a demon in the woods-,"
"I shall take care of it," the lord said casually, sitting his rotund body in a chair, "besides, there are more important matters to attend to." With that he gestured for the servant to bring him some wine. William's respectful look vanished, replaced by hate.
"Why, you're just sitting here on your arse while a demon slaughters people-," the serf yelled, before Lord Winter furiously pushed himself up.
"You dare? Get him out of here!" the noble shrieked, face ruddy. With that, the knights yanked William out of the hallway, back outside. Clouds covered the sky, though there was no real drop in the searing temperatures.
The knights talked briefly to each other, than the tall blonde knight grabbed his shoulder and began to pull him back toward the village. As they were passing by the short, squat church, William looked up at the lanky knight.
"What are you doing with me?" He questioned. At first, the warrior did not answer; then he gazed down at the peasant.
"Have to bring you back to your village."
"Are you going to help us?" William whispered.
"Soon."
"You believe me, don't you?"
Sir Bartholomew recalled the flayed corpses and shuddered.
"Yes."
William paused, the knight stopping as well. They were outside the heavy church doors, dim sunlight glinting off the stained glass windows.
"It was a demon," William explained, almost desperately, voice quivering.
He noticed the terrified expression plastered on the warrior's lean face.
"He speaks the truth," said a voice behind them. They both whirled to face the priest, who stood outside the church, hand holding onto the large silver cross around his neck.
"Father Gregory?" Sir Bartholomew asked.
"It's the truth. A devil has escaped to earth, and it must be stopped," the priest said, dark eyes flashing. Sir Bartholomew shifted uncomfortably in his polished armor, motioning William to come with him.
"We'll talk later, Father-."
"I'm going as well," Father Gregory announced, a battered Bible in hand.
The knight sighed.
"Fine, fine."
"Do you think the lady's alright?" Sir Jacob asked, urging his gray dappled horse forward. Horses were acting so strange lately…the dirt crunched behind the horses' hooves, but other than that, the thick woods was silent. No birds. Nothing. The knight remembered the bloody slaughter and bit his lower lip in concern.
When the broken carriage came into view, the three knights sucked in their breaths, appalled by the blood-soaked bodies of men and horses. It was as bad as the massacre in the forest, wide puddles of crimson spread across the road. Two of the men made signs of the cross, mumbling terrified prayers.
"Lady Winter?" Sir Jacob called out, his hand already warily on his sword hilt.
"We should go back for more help," one of the others stated.
All the knights agreed, and were turning back their horses when they heard a small cry from behind a large carriage wheel. Sir Jacob, sword drawn, called out, "Who's there?"
"Help us, please," came a feminine voice.
Sir Jacob got off his horse, fingers wrapped around the sword's hilt.
He was shaking.
Lady Winter was spread out on the ground, eyes wide open but not seeing. Her mouth moved slowly, and the maid holding her looked up, tears in her eyes and blood on her forehead.
"The Devil walked amongst us," Lady Winter moaned, jaw trembling as she clutched the maid.
"Here, I'll help you," Sir Jacob gently said, pulling the women up, "are you hurt, milady?"
No answer; Lady Winter had fainted.
As they moved toward the waiting horse, the knight heart a soft rustle in the trees overhead. Gazing up, he saw movement, as if the foliage itself was alive.
Then nothing.
Sir Jacob hoisted Lady Winter onto his gray horse, searching the trees the entire time. As they were leaving, he could have sworn that he heard someone cry out from the forest, "Help us, please."
Night had spread its inky shroud over the sky when Sir Bartholomew heard the unfortunate news of Lady Winter. The woman had gone insane, and she had screamed until her throat was raw. What's out there? The knight thought, glancing at the priest and the peasant.
Father Gregory was talking to William, occasionally looking back at the staring knight. Sir Bartholomew felt a wave of embarrassment every time; it was almost as though he could hear his fluttering heart.
You're supposed to be a knight, Bartholomew chided himself.
He certainly didn't feel like one.
Yawning, Sir Jacob leaned against the stone wall, grateful for the cold stone against his back. So far, he had been on guard duty for a few hours, and had seen nothing. Though he had been frightened the first hour, the only emotion he felt now was sheer boredom. I have to protect the lord and lady, he reminded himself, yawning wide again.
Sir Peter, an older knight with a graying beard, waved to him, night leaving deep shadows on his graven face.
"How are you doing tonight, Sir Jacob?" the other knight asked politely, carrying his vermilion-plumed helmet under one arm.
"Fine," Jacob answered, trying hard not to yawn a third time, especially not in front of someone like Sir Peter.
"That's good. I'll be right back," the older man said, disappearing across the courtyard. Sir Jacob closed his eyes, then promptly when the old knight's voice drifted over to him.
"How are you doing tonight, Sir Jacob?"
Jacob tilted his head, confused. Peter was obviously becoming senile in his old age…
"Fine! You already asked that!"
"Sir Jacob. I'll be right back. Right back," came the voice. Raising one bushy eyebrow, Jacob took a step forward. Then heard his own voice.
"Fine! You already asked that!"
"What in the name of-," Jacob started, before he saw the limp form in the distance, laying in a shallow pool of liquid.
With no head.
"Sweet God!" Sir Jacob gasped, recognizing Peter's armor.
Another shape appeared, this one huge. He grabbed his sword, taking in the black tendrils, the wire-like mesh that covered inhuman skin. Screaming, the monster came at him, firing blue fireballs from its shoulder armor. One bright fireball scorched Jacob's hand; the other burst through his neck.
Lord Winter sighed unhappily and stroked his wife's delicate hand, watching the foam-flecked lips move in a motion of insanity. Darkness had settled over the bedroom; eerie shadows covered the sprawling bed and the expensive furniture.
"I'll kill the man who did this, Elizabeth," he promised, staring at her glassy eyes.
Crash.
He leapt up quickly for a man of his size, icy pinpricks running down the length of his spine. What?
"Guards?" Lord Winter called out, listening. The silence was unsettling, and he shouted again, his voice echoing. Scurrying into the hallway, he glanced about, the deep yellow from the candles lighting the long corridor for him. There was no movement at all, and Lord Winter swallowed, snatching an antique sword from the wall, holding the sharp weapon clumsily in his fat hand.
A bright smear on the wall attracted his attention; he nearly vomited when he saw that it was blood, the air tainted with the heavy smell. Suddenly terrified witless, he ran up a flight of stairs, breathing rapidly as he did. God help me, he begged silently, calling out for his guards as he gasped for breath.
An eerie clicking came from nowhere, and a hulking demon appeared from thin air, moonlight gleaming off its armor.
Before he could properly react, the monster slapped the weapon from his hand, hissing madly as it did so. Black claws sank deep into his scalp as the giant pulled him forward, greasy locks rubbing against his skin.
The flat head drooped slightly, and the immense demon seemed disappointed for some reason.
Then the towering monster effortlessly hoisted Lord Winter over its head, even as the man screamed for mercy, and dropped him out the window, where he crashed to the ground, nearly one hundred feet below.
"Lord Winter's dead," the messenger replied grimly, and Sir Bartholomew frowned, noticing the burnt smell on the wind. Death, he realized, it stinks like Death itself…
Behind him, the serfs were petrified, begging the knight to help them, to save them from this evil.
"Sir Jacob, is he-?" Bartholomew asked, his throat dry.
"Yes, they're all dead," the messenger said softly.
"How can we stop the Devil himself?" Sir Bartholomew demanded, trying not to panic, the priest turning to face him, Bible pressed firmly against his chiton.
"God will help us," Father Gregory told him, confident in his religion. Even so, Bartholomew involuntarily reached for his sword, gazing about the dark village, scouring for any potential enemy hiding behind the huts. He hated the thought of being the only knight left; now the villages' safety relied on him.
A coward.
"We must go up to Lord Winter's house. The demon might still be there," William suggested, hefting the hunting knife in his hand. The knight envied the peasant's eagerness, and secretly wished that he could have some of the youth's courage.
"Yes," Father Gregory agreed, looking back toward the black manor.
"Couldn't we just wait until help arrives?" Sir Bartholomew questioned, trying desperately to get out of it.
"The Devil might have already claimed more souls. We must go now," the priest said, clutching his cross as he rubbed the sweat from his face with the opposite hand.
Sir Bartholomew bit his lip and didn't reply.
Guards lay outside of the wrought iron gates, twin marks weeping blood slashed across their faces. It smells like rotting meat, William thought, heart pounding like a drum. The thick metal gates were coated with gore, strings of tendons and pulpy flesh hanging in thick clumps.
The knight gagged, the priest held up his cross defiantly, and William tried hard to breathe.
The courtyard was quiet, trails of wet blood marring the stone. The serf held onto his hunting dagger painfully tight, listening to the howling wind as it picked up. The broken body of an archer lay near a large pile of hay, and William snatched up the bow and arrows.
Then a clattering sound, and a stallion came galloping out of the shadows, eyes rolling in fear. Even as William lowered his knife slightly, a hiss came from the corners, and suddenly the horse was brutally ripped open, red trickling down its brown-white fur.
Without thinking twice, William dropped the dagger, and used the bow and arrows, firing ungainly in the general direction of the horse. One arrow struck the maimed animal, and two hit something else, something solid but invisible. Glowing green fluid sprayed as an enraged howl rose up into the air, blue sparks creeping along a giant outline.
A gargantuan monster appeared, bloodstained blades held up threateningly. The bright greenish-yellow fluid leaked from the arrows poking out of its side and muscled belly, the liquid dripping to the ground. The devil leaped high in the air, with the smooth grace of a cat, and landed beside William, who was desperately trying to reload the bow.
Sir Bartholomew felt fear course through his body and did the only thing he could think of-he ran for his life, listening to the peasant's agonized shrieks from behind him.
Razor blades dug deep into the serf's arm as the demon slashed, knocking him to the ground. His head hit hard, and he felt the warmth of his own blood running down his damaged limb. As the creature loomed over William, Father Gregory shouted and, without thinking, snapped his silver cross from its thin chain.
The helmet, he thought, holding the cross and yanking on the strange mask with the other. Growling hoarsely, the giant devil tried to throw the priest off, tearing off the helmet in the process. Father Gregory looked at the horrible face-one with yellow eyes sunken deep within their black sockets. A scattering of spots were dappled across the shiny skin, and those oily rope-like braids trailed down the broad shoulders. Tusks that resembled deformed fingers twitched as the creature opened its little mouth wide and roared.
Then the priest rammed his cross into its left eye, spewing green liquid all over his robes.
Ignoring William, the colossal demon turned its attention to Father Gregory.
His conscience got the better of him before he made it back to the gates. Sir Bartholomew turned around and ran back toward William and Father Gregory, his legs pumping as quickly as possible.
William groaned and gazed up just as the monster heaved the priest against a wall, the torch falling onto a towering pile of hay as he struck it. Brilliant orange flames erupted on the stack, spreading rapidly to other piles. Father Gregory slid to the ground in a tangled heap, head lolling.
The scarlet fire illuminated the demon's crab face as it gurgled and turned its monstrous head when the peasant jumped up, arm burning with pain, scooped up the dagger and drove the weapon into the giant's mottled chest. With one hand it knocked William over again and stomped down on his leg with one sandaled foot before he could move away, shattering the bone.
Even as he gasped, eyes wide open, the monster roared loudly in victory, shaking its head wildly as it bent down with its crimson-stained blades to tear open his chest…
And then Sir Bartholomew appeared from behind a burning haystack, swinging his sword. The weapon caught the immense demon on the back of its malformed skull, yellowish fluid leaking out onto the glittering sword.
Its death cry echoed through out the vast, empty courtyard, ringing off the walls as it fell like an old oak to the ground, air escaping from its lungs. William looked up at Sir Bartholomew, who wiped a streak of glowing liquid from his forehead and nodded solemnly.
The knight glanced down at his fallen foe, then went to check on Father Gregory.
William gazed up at the dark sky with its scattering of white stars, patting his bandaged leg as he sat on the soft mound of grass. Lord Winter's house had burned to the ground, and the noble himself was dead, though no one cared much.
Sometimes he wondered about the monster he had fought so many years before. Father Gregory, his legs paralyzed from the fight with the giant creature, preached that it had been a demon. For awhile the serf had thought so too; now he wasn't so sure. He searched the stars avidly for an answer, but never found one