Hooded

A hooded figure strode along briskly, soft cowskin shoes barely making any sound even on the loosely pebbled pathways. He was rather slender and about a head shorter than the average man. A boy perhaps, possibly in his teenage years. His gait however, was hardly that of a foolhardy, carefree youngster. His hands held the edges of his cloak close to his other garments, which were flowing almost all the way to the floor. Occasionally one hand would reach up and pull its cowl ever lower over his face, making his features unfathomable. The only proof that a living person resided in that grey shadowy walking pile of clothing was the hooded figure's periodic breaths, which condensed in the chilly night air shortly after escaping the pitch dark recesses of his cowl.

It soon appeared that he had arrived at his intended destination. The mysterious young man swerved off the main path onto a narrow cobbled walkway. Raising his head slightly at the slowly swaying, creaking sign above the door of an inn depicting a mug of beer, he nodded to himself and approached. He paused momentarily at the heavy oaken door and peered about hastily before sticking an arm out and pushing the door open, releasing the ruckus of semi-drunken revelry into the dark, empty street. The door closed swiftly and silently, the shafts of lamp light emanating from the doorway thinning and warping before disappearing altogether. Soon, all had faded to black and the night was quiet again.

The hooded figure glided through the mass of burly drinkers, toppled chairs and half- filled mugs in a most ghost-like fashion, materialising at the opposite end untouched and unstained. He seated himself at a small round table across another man who was wearing a brown cape and cowl. Presently, he was dissecting a steak with his long thin dagger. Upon the arrival of the grey figure, he delivered some steak to his sharp, yellow teeth and pulled the dagger back out, producing a shrill metallic ring. Violently sticking the rest of the steak clear through with the dagger, he pushed the plate aside and hissed through his teeth,
"You're late."

His testy monologue and dramatic pause garnering no response from the grey figure, he reached into a packet and produced a pipe, some leaf and a weathered deck of cards. The two played cards for several minutes, unspeaking, leaning over the table and straining to see in the flickering lamp light. The smoke billowing from the brown figure's lips further obscured their activities.

Finally, the figure in grey pushed two gold coins across the table and flicked the fingers of his right hand, indicating that he had lost the game, and their unspoken bet. The brown figure nodded slightly and accepted the coins. The grey figure got up to leave, but was stayed, "wait." Using his middle and index finger, the victor conveyedan upside down card which slid smoothly over the table surface. Stopping the card with a finger, the grey figure peeled the card off the table. The king of spades stared at him solemnly, wearing his black crown and weilding a black sword, expressionless behind his thick black beard. Behind his self-imposed, impenetrable veil of darkness, the grey figure's eyes narrowed. Turning on his heels, he melted into the crowd, the king in his hand disappearing with a flick of his wrist.
"Better luck next time," the brown figure grunted.

Hooded part 2

The grey figure sauntered casually enough through the door of the inn, but his pace increased considerably as soon as it was shut. Perched on the sign of the nearby smithy, a horned owl pivoted its head 180 degrees in pure owl fashion. Two obsidian spheres observed the grey figure -which had appeared back into the street -with significant interest. Its perfect night vision made out the character's worried eyes and flustered steps. The owl half closed its eyes and pulled back its head to dull the shrill whistle of a master calling his steed. Mounting his horse quickly, the grey figure lead it with remarkable stealth along the pebbled path. Once they were clear of the town gate however, the black horse leapt forward as if its tail was on fire and galloped off on a muddy road at a ferocious pace. The owl cocked its head curiously and watched horse and rider disappear into the late night, then ruffled its feathers and took off into a nearby forest.

In a clearing some kilometres away, four large men sat around a small fire, silently dining. On today's menu was some stale bread and hard moldy cheese, washed down with a rationed mug of cheap beer. Sun, snow, wind and rain were entirely unkind on their grim, grimy weather-beaten faces, now illuminated unevenly by their fickle, flickering campfire. Their leader wore a black battered breastplate with notched shoulder guards. His leggings were well worn at the knee area and ended in steel boots with cruelly sharp spurs. On his hands were gauntlets backed with sharp, curved steel spikes. Beside him lay his huge fearsome helmet, its perfectly smooth exterior only interrupted by two horns and the holes for his eyes. The men had rather limited conversation, mostly revolving around slight variations of "pass the salt". They sat, waiting, each sipping from his mug and thinking of battles, riding and new techniques they were going to employ in the next melee. One of them produced periodic scraping sounds with his knife, cutting new shafts for crossbow bolts. His shifty eyes made him seem the thieving sort, and rightly so, for he was quite a weasel. Filk'd his name was. His fingers demonstrated remarkable dextrosity, the carving knife flashing again and again, reflecting the campfire, and shavings of wood fell between his fingers unhindered. The other two were usual tough, gritty soldier types, and were probably brought along to give the task force some "body". In other words, to soak up arrows and blows. They busied themselves with looking bored and maintaining their equipment. Hours dragged by and a substantial quiver of bolts had accumulated beside the thin fellow. Then suddenly, the silent flutter of stealthy wings. The four men neither saw nor heard the horned owl until it landed on their leader's shoulder momentarily, then took off again. The large man got up and loosened his joints, prompting his team to do the same. They got their gear on and mounted their horses with military speed and precision. With an evil grin behind his steel mask, the leader addressed his men.

"For two weeks we have hunted this spy, now his scent is in our nostrils. Let the chase begin!"

With that, he set off in hot pursuit of the owl, his men trailing.

Hooded 3

The already deafening roar of the crowd rose to a fevered pitch as the first contestant stepped out of his tent. He wore only ornately carved shining bronze greaves on his thighs, on top of his baggy white trousers. The red sash around his waist, flowing gaily with the heavy crosswind, identified him as an elite warrior of the sultan’s imperial guard. The toes on his bare feet achieved an easy and comfortable grasp in the loose, fine sand, warmed by the afternoon sun as he stepped onto the arena. A few hundred paces away, was a blue and white striped tent, which strangely had no banner anywhere near it, which was very atypical of Rennon’s knights. The other combatant was presumably still preparing, but the warrior did not allow his thoughts to stray. He emptied his mind of all thought, and gained an awareness of his own body’s every movement. His sword slowly became one with his mind, and his breathing became measured and even. Honing his concentration to a needle point, he maintained his state of combat awareness, ignoring the mixed crowd with both the desert garb of his people, and the colourful green, blue, yellow and brown clothing typical of Rennon’s citizenry.

The arena itself was originally used for jousting, which was evident in its length, but was refitted for fights on foot to accommodate the visiting sultan who sat next to his host, none other than King Archibald of Rennon. On the sultan’s left was the crown prince, and on the king’s right was his only daughter, princess Ciralen, proud and poised, and bathed in morning light. She was secretly quite fond of fencing, but due to her many commitments as a princess, never got very good at it. Nevertheless, she always accompanied her father to the yearly games, looking forward to the melee event. The sultan was quite comfortable beside his close friend and ally King Archibald, with whom he was in deep conversation about a wide variety of topics. Their agenda was quite packed this year, and they wasted no time getting to it. The match was about to start, however, and their discussion invariably steered towards it.

“So, who did you send out this year?” The king pointed at the impressive bronzed warrior who had just stepped out of his tent.

“His name is Rasheed, just into his prime, I must say. Proven in battle. A hundred heads, no less.” The sultan gestured towards the warrior with his heavily ringed finger. “You might just lose this year!” He added with raised eyebrows and a grin.

The king laughed and introduced his own contender. “You must forgive me, sultan, but hear me out first. The one I sent this year is only a young swordsman, not into his twenties. Never seen battle.” At this the sultan’s eyebrows shot even higher. “But! But! He is undefeated in single combat. Not even one of my knights could beat him. He even managed to garner a draw against the guard captain, Sir Thomas! So, I gave him a chance to prove himself worthy of joining my elite guard in this most worthy arena. He shall be the youngest to date, if successful. When he emerges victorious, you shall hear his name from his own lips.”

“Really now! I don’t think I shall be disappointed then. When you’re ready, go ahead.”

Standing up, the king raised a hand to silence the crowd, composed of people from all walks of life in his kingdom and his neighbour’s. “People of Al Miramar!” An answering shout shook the ground. “And of Rennon!” Another shout rang out from the sea of tiny figures. “Welcome to the Lantharum mountains arena! Today’s event is the Melee. Feast your eyes on the combatants. They come to prove their valour in combat, honour in knighthood. Pick your winners! Support the champions from your home town! This is their day. Win or lose, give them no reason to have bitter memory of it, but rather, let them commemorate this day as their Day! Of! Glory!”

The crowd was pretty stirred up by the speech, but their attention was quickly averted from the king on his elevated platform in the open grandstand, to the triple ranks of foot soldiers advancing on each other from the opposing lists. As the day wore on, they enjoyed the fighting styles of the two very different groups of warriors, engaging in various matches with various rules. However, the crowd was always mindful that the last fight of the day, where each country sends its champion for one on one battle. Soon, it was time, and the crowd fell ghostly silent. Surgeons busied themselves carting off the wounded, and the match ground was soon empty. It was late afternoon, and Rasheed had just stepped out of his animal skin tent, quietly awaiting his opponent.

Hooded 4

“Are you ready?” A member of the elite guard, tasked with getting Derrick ready. He was holding open one side of the tent curtain and sticking his head in.

“Almost!” Derrick gasped. He was visibly nervous, wearing his swords and a unique battle armour which his friend at the royal smithy had made for him personally.

The knight walked in and lifted him to his feet by the shoulders. He pulled at everything, to make sure it was well fitted, tightening and making adjustments here and there.

“You know you can beat him! Just stay calm. Even if you lose, the king will still knight you if you put up a good fight. Concentrate on doing just that.” The knight gave him one last, solid whack on the shoulder guard, then gave him a light shove out of the tent.

The sudden glare of the afternoon sun was harsh, and Derrick was nearly overwhelmed by the sudden increase in cheering from the crowd all around the arena. His arms felt strangely heavy, and he had trouble standing straight. With a great effort, he walked slowly toward the lists. Passing him with various injuries were the previous combatants. They bravely saluted him and limped onward to the first aid tents. Finally, he was at the barrier, and stepped onto the arena. At this, his opponent began coming towards him. They met in the middle, and his opponent placed his right hand over his breast and bowed deep.

“Rasheed.” He offered, not knowing any words of Rennon’s language.

Derrick raised his visor. “Derrick.” He tried to smile and not look nervous.

Rasheed, realising that his opponent was very young and not as experienced, gave a brief smile and nod. He gestured towards Derrick’s swords, then took three paces back, drawing his scimitar from its ornate golden sheath and hardening his face into a mask. Derrick took a deep breath, then lowered his visor. He pulled out one of his two broad bladed sabres with his left hand, its polished surface flashing in the sun. Confidence flowed into him as he felt the slightly forward curved, leather wrapped handle, its oval guard depicting two carved cranes on either side of the blade. His eyes caught the glint of its bronze pommel and the flutter of its red cloth tassel, which, Rasheed noted, was slightly offset toward the back to accommodate a device, or clip of sorts. A quick glance at the other sheath on the right of Derrick’s belt revealed that a similar mechanism was on the other sword’s pommel as well. He could only guess at what that was, but refocused his attention on his opponent. It seemed Derrick was left handed, another advantage to balance out his inexperience.

Rasheed assumed his Scorpion Stance, with his scimitar poised above his head in his unarmoured right arm, and his left arm held out before him, bearing its vambrace, one of the few pieces of armour he wore on his body. His opponent was also somewhat minimally armoured for a knight from his country, with pieces covering only vital spots, as well as a few reinforced segments on his forearms, shins and shoulders for blocking blows; an interesting configuration to say the least. Derrick’s stance, like his weapon, seemed to have a somewhat oriental influence. He was standing with his right leg in front, sabre held out back.

Once they were both done sizing each other up, the match began. Derrick started with his trademark sweep at his opponent’s weapon; more a polite gesture than an offensive one, but his next backhand downward stroke landed hard and fast, with several follow ups equally quick. A combination of dodging and blocking allowed Rasheed to keep his head. His combination of experience and handling skill got him out of a defensive position though, and he was soon on top of Derrick’s rather linear attack form, left-handedness notwithstanding. Derrick was running out of ideas fast, and at the first repeated pattern, he was surprised by the immediate exploitation of the opening. With his left arm in mid swing, above his opponent’s head, and a scimitar coming for his lower abdomen, he grabbed urgently with his right hand and managed to get his second sword to half draw, just in time to take the blow. Simultaneously, he reversed his left handed sword’s grip and made a stabbing slice at his opponent, who leapt back just in time. The ringing sound produced resonated throughout the arena, among a spellbound audience.

Derrick did not allow a pause, running forward with one sabre behind his back, the other pointing at the opponent’s face. He now seemed to become right handed, using his reverse gripped left hand sabre for defence and his right hand for attack. His onset was furious, but manageable, since Rasheed knew the roles Derrick had assigned for each hand … or not… He was visibly shocked to see a reverse gripped slash, and barely stopped it. All the knights of Rennon craned their necks forward at this. Something was coming. They saw him plunge the two pommels together, and make a twisting action with his wrist. Rasheed was reeling too hard to hear an ominous click. The blade he was pushing back suddenly relented, but the other was coming equally quick from his left. It was momentarily facing the wrong way, but the business end was soon landing hard on his blade, which he had to support with his left forearm. The steel shrieked as the weapons parted, but the same blow was coming again, and again, and again. ‘No way! It is impossible to strike this fast!’ He then noticed that Derrick was no longer holding two swords, but a curved staff, bladed on both ends like a windmill. Derrick swung the staff skilfully around his waist, over his head, changing directions on whim and striking from both sides like a snake with a head on both ends.

Rasheed remarkably kept up with this new advance, and even tried a brief counterattack, but before he could come up with a strategy, his blade was several metres away, spinning lazily through the air before finally getting stuck in the ground. Derrick’s blade, warm from the sparring, rested on Rasheed’s left shoulder, facing his neck. After a brief pause, it was lifted, and held behind his back. Derrick lifted his visor in salute. Rasheed reciprocated with a bow. Then the roar of the crowd then burst forth like a flood, accompanied by applause, screams and cheering. Derrick walked towards his opponent’s sword and retrieved it, presenting it to Rasheed with both hands. The two combatants then saluted the royals, then the crowd, then parted and headed back for their tents.

Hooded 5

The now Sir Derrick strode through the long hallway to the king’s court, He wore brand new armour, forged for him in anticipation of his victory, and presented to him the day before, when he attained knighthood in one of the most difficult ways possible. The knighting and armour presentation ceremony was most grand. He especially liked his new helmet’s retractable visor. The need of the times however, prevented an extended celebration. It was straight to duty the very next day. The sound of his boots’ heels digging into the stone flooring echoed up and down the hall’s length, but it was soon overshadowed by some voices emanating from the slightly opened double doors right before him.

‘-------------- of emissaries aren’t you? I -------------------------- me! Give me a simple task, ---------------- it and show what your ----------------- of.’

‘I --------------------------------- is just more complicated ----------------------------, you ------------------- to complete.’

‘--------------------------- said so yourself. This is the perfect chance for me to --------------------------------- books cannot give. I think I can handle it.’

‘What -------------- merit, but…’

‘My Lord, if I may. I really see --------------------- suggestion. The ---------------- famous in name, but none who live outside the palace could accurately --------------- send a guard.’

‘Yes, but ----armed guard --------------, not negotiation!’

‘Pardon me, Sire, but by a guard, I meant “a” as in “one”.’

‘You can’t be serious!’

‘Eavesdropping?’

‘Aaah. Sir Thomas!’

‘Well I suppose they should never have left the door half closed like that. In any case, you’re a knight now. Get used to your arrival being announced. Helmet on.’

Derrick scrambled to do as he was told, as Sir Thomas put his heavy arm round his shoulder and ushered him into the chamber.

‘My Lord the King,’ Thomas raised his visor in salute, ‘I come to answer your summons, and to bring news.’

‘Ah, yes. At last comes the last member of this secret council... Sir Derrick? You’re not due for another hour. I suppose you could sit in. You are, after all, a member my personal guard now.’ The king paused for a moment, facing to one side and closing his eyes. ‘Right. First off, what news have you gathered?’

‘Bad news I’m afraid. So bad my contact is not even willing to send it by any other means, except personally. I am meeting him three days from here, and have come to inform you of the urgency of my mission.’

‘Is your squire the contact you speak of?’

‘Indeed. He is very dear to me, and his danger is grave. The information he holds is also too vital to us. I wish to go personally to ensure this mission’s success.’

‘Very well. Truth be told, I had another mission in mind for you,’ Sir Thomas held his breath. ‘But circumstance does not permit us to follow my initial plan. This is a dilemma indeed.’ The king paced in several small circles. ‘I have decided. Sir Thomas, go on your way with all speed, and my blessing.’

Sir Thomas left immediately, leaving Derrick in the room with the king, the advisor, and a noble looking young lady.

‘Lady Ciralen, you must no doubt have heard of Sir Derrick, whose combat prowess you witnessed just yesterday at the games. Derrick, Lady Ciralen here is one of my newest appointed emissaries. I have a mission for you both.’