Sir Broderick to war! The thought caused terror the like Monet had never known to seize her in its painful grip.
As tears flooded Monet’s cheeks anew, the Crimson Knight took a knee before her.
“God be with you, Princess.” The low, powerful intonation of his voice as he addressed her caused her to tremble. “God watch over and protect you, your highness,” he added.
Monet placed both her hands on Sir Broderick’s bowed helmet.
“God go with you, Sir Broderick,” she breathed. “God watch over you. May He wield your sword with you…and count you preserved.”
The Crimson Knight rose to take his leave. Yet he paused. Monet resisted, barely restrained herself, from reaching out, from throwing her arms around him and begging him not to go—to stay out of harm’s way that he may be assuredly preserved.
“I will not let Death claim your father, Princess,” he said, his eyes narrowed with determination. “I will give my life to—”
She could not hear him speak it; thus her fingers pressed his lips to silence him. She would not hear him speak of giving up his life—not for anyone, nor anything! Not even for her father or Karvana!
“God…protect our Crimson Knight,” she whispered.
She turned and fled—ran up the winding stairs leading to the crest of the castle’s keep.
Her body wracked with sobbing, she stepped out onto the keep’s crest. Far below she could see them—her father astride his white charger, the Crimson Knight of Karvana at his side, thirteen remaining knights of the table behind them. Beyond the walls of the castle kingdom, she could see the glinting in the sunlight—three legions of soldiers ready to be commanded, waiting to be led into battle by her father and the Crimson Knight.
War had come, and the people—the land—Karvana must be protected.
The horns sounded, and the inner gates were lifted, the inner drawbridge lowered. A sudden breeze freshened the air. It caught the gossamer scarlet veil draped over Monet’s shoulders, whisking it away—carrying it out over the parapets. The rumble of horses shook the earth as the knights and their king charged toward their legions in await.
Squires followed, cooks, blacksmiths—and Monet trembled.
She could see her father’s white charger in the distance. She could see Sir Broderick’s armor glinting in the morning sun.
“God protect you, Father,” she whispered. “God love and preserve you, Sir Broderick,” she breathed.
She could hear it then—the lute of a minstrel and a familiar tune. Glancing over, she saw him, there in one corner of the keep—the Minstrel Marius. She well knew Marius and the melody he plucked.
“At your bidding, your highness,” Marius said with a nod.
Monet nodded. Brushing the tears from her cheeks, she returned her attention to Karvana’s soldiers amassing to the north as the minstrel began his ballad—the ballad of “A Crimson Frost.”
Once Ballist was a battle stage
Where soldiers fought and war was wage
To keep Karvana for an age,
And poets yet put ink to page
Of a Crimson Frost upon him.
As blade met blade ’mid winter snow
And legions battled row on row,
The North Wind did begin to blow
And bid the Reaper then to sow
With a Crimson Frost behind him.
Up-mounted on his demon stud
The Reaper reaped amidst the flood
Of dying men strewn in the mud
As Ballist’s field ran red with blood
With a Crimson Frost beside him.
As Winter and the North Wind roared
Ten men would fall to cold and sword.
Ten more and then the Dark Death Lord
Would reap them up into his hoard
With a Crimson Frost to aid him.
Then midst the brutal, bloody fight
The Reaper spied a comely knight,
His hilt and sword a flame of light,
Battling for his kingdom’s might
And no Crimson Frost upon him.
This knight so comely, brave, and strong,
Who fought for right instead of wrong
Amidst the battle’s bloodied throng
Pure vexed the Reaper’s reaping song,
For no
As tears flooded Monet’s cheeks anew, the Crimson Knight took a knee before her.
“God be with you, Princess.” The low, powerful intonation of his voice as he addressed her caused her to tremble. “God watch over and protect you, your highness,” he added.
Monet placed both her hands on Sir Broderick’s bowed helmet.
“God go with you, Sir Broderick,” she breathed. “God watch over you. May He wield your sword with you…and count you preserved.”
The Crimson Knight rose to take his leave. Yet he paused. Monet resisted, barely restrained herself, from reaching out, from throwing her arms around him and begging him not to go—to stay out of harm’s way that he may be assuredly preserved.
“I will not let Death claim your father, Princess,” he said, his eyes narrowed with determination. “I will give my life to—”
She could not hear him speak it; thus her fingers pressed his lips to silence him. She would not hear him speak of giving up his life—not for anyone, nor anything! Not even for her father or Karvana!
“God…protect our Crimson Knight,” she whispered.
She turned and fled—ran up the winding stairs leading to the crest of the castle’s keep.
Her body wracked with sobbing, she stepped out onto the keep’s crest. Far below she could see them—her father astride his white charger, the Crimson Knight of Karvana at his side, thirteen remaining knights of the table behind them. Beyond the walls of the castle kingdom, she could see the glinting in the sunlight—three legions of soldiers ready to be commanded, waiting to be led into battle by her father and the Crimson Knight.
War had come, and the people—the land—Karvana must be protected.
The horns sounded, and the inner gates were lifted, the inner drawbridge lowered. A sudden breeze freshened the air. It caught the gossamer scarlet veil draped over Monet’s shoulders, whisking it away—carrying it out over the parapets. The rumble of horses shook the earth as the knights and their king charged toward their legions in await.
Squires followed, cooks, blacksmiths—and Monet trembled.
She could see her father’s white charger in the distance. She could see Sir Broderick’s armor glinting in the morning sun.
“God protect you, Father,” she whispered. “God love and preserve you, Sir Broderick,” she breathed.
She could hear it then—the lute of a minstrel and a familiar tune. Glancing over, she saw him, there in one corner of the keep—the Minstrel Marius. She well knew Marius and the melody he plucked.
“At your bidding, your highness,” Marius said with a nod.
Monet nodded. Brushing the tears from her cheeks, she returned her attention to Karvana’s soldiers amassing to the north as the minstrel began his ballad—the ballad of “A Crimson Frost.”
Once Ballist was a battle stage
Where soldiers fought and war was wage
To keep Karvana for an age,
And poets yet put ink to page
Of a Crimson Frost upon him.
As blade met blade ’mid winter snow
And legions battled row on row,
The North Wind did begin to blow
And bid the Reaper then to sow
With a Crimson Frost behind him.
Up-mounted on his demon stud
The Reaper reaped amidst the flood
Of dying men strewn in the mud
As Ballist’s field ran red with blood
With a Crimson Frost beside him.
As Winter and the North Wind roared
Ten men would fall to cold and sword.
Ten more and then the Dark Death Lord
Would reap them up into his hoard
With a Crimson Frost to aid him.
Then midst the brutal, bloody fight
The Reaper spied a comely knight,
His hilt and sword a flame of light,
Battling for his kingdom’s might
And no Crimson Frost upon him.
This knight so comely, brave, and strong,
Who fought for right instead of wrong
Amidst the battle’s bloodied throng
Pure vexed the Reaper’s reaping song,
For no
Similar Books
