Page 10 of Knight of Darkness
“I will spit on your dead body and claim to be victorious over the Knight of Darkness,” the cur retorted, full of arrogance that his poor swordsmanship certainly didn’t warrant.
Wymar smirked knowing the knight before him would fail in his boast to kill him. He lifted his sword. A howl of pain erupted from his adversary when the blade came in contact with the man’s arm, severing it cleanly at the elbow. The knight fell to the ground, screaming. Taking his life would likely be a mercy at this point, but there was no time to waste on his fallen foe, not when another easily took his place.
’Twas rumored that the Empress’s half-brother had joined their forces bringing with him his own army of men. Surely, the battle would tilt in their favor with the additional knights to fight for their empress and ensure Stephen’s defeat.
But as far as Wymar was concerned, today’s battle was no different than the day before. The enemy continued to press forward in their desire to win the day. Those who fought for the Empress Matilda were just as eager to secure her title and claim the battle as a victory in her name. Yet all Wymar saw before him was blood and death. The stench of it sickened him but still he continued swinging his sword.
A movement caught his eye and his attention was drawn to one of his brothers. Theobald was holding his own for the most part but he was so focused on the man in front of him that he paid no attention to the one coming at him from behind. The fool!
Wymar dodged a blade and shoved his shoulder into the knight who was facing him, catching the man off balance and knocking him to the ground. He jumped over him, running in his attempt to reach his brother before a blade was thrust into his back. The idiot had had no time to put his chainmail on this morn before the call to arms was raised. Theo’s leather jerkin would provide little protection against the steel coming closer by the second.
With no further thought, Wymar began running to reach his brother. Reaching behind him, he pulled a dirk from his belt and flung the blade. Wymar watched in satisfaction as the knife hit its mark right between the eyes of the unsuspecting mercenary who fell in a heap to the ground.
Theobald must have heard the man’s cry as he was struck, for he appeared stunned as he swerved to miss another blade. He thrust his sword forward. The enemy before him groaned as he fell to the ground and Theo pulled his weapon from the dead man’s belly before turning to glimpse the man at his back who had nearly taken his life.
“My thanks,” he called out to his brother.
Wymar met him upon the field and then clasped arms. “Be more mindful next time. I may not be there to save your sorry hide.”
Theobald grunted, before he elbowed another knight in the gut. He gave the man a swift kick in his arse and watched in satisfaction as he went tumbling forward. “Take care of yourself as well. We might just win this day if we are lucky,” he shouted.
“Where’s Reynard?” Wymar yelled back, swinging his blade again and again. The sound of swords meeting swords rang out in the air along with the moans of the dying.
He brother raised his shield to deflect another blow. “There!” he bellowed swiftly pointing his sword toward the left before throwing himself back into battle.
Wymar swung around and was satisfied his younger brother appeared to be holding his own. He may be young but he was an exceptional swordsman, even better than Wymar had been at that age… not that he would ever admit such to Reynard.
He had no further time to worry about his brothers, not when the enemy continued to press forward to gain every inch of land. Time and time again, Wymar lifted his shield or swung his blade. For each foe he struck down who attempted to take his life, another took his place. A moment seemed like an hour in the endless sea of knights fighting for whichever side they belonged on.
A sharp, childlike cry rang out. It was an ungodly sound amongst the battle weary. Wymar paused to get his bearings and to search for the source of the cry, for no one of such tender years belonged in the bloodbath before him. He ducked from another sword aimed at his head before he at last espied the person who had drawn his attention.
A young squire, no more than ten and four summers, held a dirk to defend himself whilst he stood guarding another knight lying upon the ground. He watched as the boy was backhanded and ’twas a grim reminder of the incident that happened the night at the inn. With no further thought, he plowed through the men standing in his path of reaching the boy who swayed yet continued to hold his ground. The boy had some fight in him, and was clearly willing to risk his all to give his master a chance to recover. Alas, a glance was enough to tell Wymar that no such recovery was possible. The knight who the boy was so valiantly defending was already dead.
Wymar charged into the mercenary who was about to kill the boy, knocking him to the ground. Mumbled curses came pouring forth as they continued to wrestle in the mud to gain the advantage. But Wymar had had enough of those showing such unfair and excessive aggression toward people who were too young to be well equipped to be upon the battlefield. He found himself thinking of the knight he had met when he first arrived in Lincoln, treated so appallingly by a man in his service. The young lord deserved better—and so did this squire. Fumbling for a knife he saw laying on the ground, his fingers at last grabbed at the hilt and he plunged the blade into the man’s leather jerkin, thankful this one was not wearing steel chainmail.
He saw the man’s look of surprise before his face went slack with death. Wymar rolled off him and retrieved the knife. Wiping the blade on the dying man’s clothing, he gave no further thought to him but turned his attention to the young boy still reeling on the ground.
“Get up,” Wymar bellowed, taking the boy’s elbow to help him rise. Making a fast assessment of the situation around him, it appeared as though no one was immediately going to make another attempt on his life… at least not as yet.
“But my master…”
“…is clearly dead. Have you no sense, boy, to be here where you do not belong?”
The lad shook his head still dazed. “I was to follow him…”
Wymar sighed and began pulling the boy away from the field. “And you have done your duty but, unless you wish to join him in the afterlife, you need to get yourself to safety.”
“I have nowhere else to go,” he cried out and Wymar was reminded of when he and his brothers had been in the same predicament.
Thundering hooves caused Wymar to shove his charge away from the massive war horses that carried their knights away from the battlefield.The cowards, Wymar thought whilst he saw what appeared to be Stephen’s cavalry deserting him.
“Damn Welsh!” he murmured whilst another all too familiar scene flashed across his mind. How many years had it been since he had lost his home? Only six, in truth—scarcely more than a handful—and yet they felt as if they had been too many to count. At times, it was as though they had been living from place to place longer than they had called Brockenhurst their home. The only remembrance was the family standard he had been able to save, and he continued to have the image of the black raven sewn into his tabard when the opportunity presented itself.
His father had been beheaded for treason when Stephen’s men broke down the barbican gate and seized the keep. Wymar had rushed to gather what he could before he quickly ushered his brothers into a hidden passageway only known to the family. There had been no time to gather any of the other household staff to ensure their safety. Though it pained him to his soul to leave the rest behind, protecting his brothers had to come first. The servants’ lives might be spared, depending on the mood of their captors. But sons of the keep would be made an example of. With their sire dead, Wymar knew it had been imperative to escape as quickly as possible.
Once they had made their getaway and were far enough away from the madness that had befallen them, Wymar had turned back to look at what was left of their home. Their estate surrounding the keep burned until there was not much left to salvage. And yet his eyes had observed how the keep still stood proudly in the distance even though the outbuildings were no more. Even the title that should have rightfully been his birthright had been stripped from him and he watched angrily when Stephen’s banner was raised at the top of one of Brockenhurst’s turrets.
From that day forth, Wymar was suddenly a parent to his brothers, wandering the lands and hiring out his sword arm for a bit of coin in order to help them survive. Mayhap ’twas a blessing their mother had died giving birth to Reynard. He would have not wished her to see their fate if she had yet lived that awful day their father’s life had been taken.
