Four Shields

 

The fourth and last shield was in place on the monument. A dozen scarred knights and dames silently raised their swords in salute.

There were no profound speeches or weeping ladies in fine attire to pay homage to The Four. No nobles came forth to declare the bravery of The Four. No bard sang a song for them.

The Four had held the line of retreat against a hundred gargs, falling back in good order while the townies had fled across the White River Crossing. When The Four had reached the bridge, they had stopped and held off the slavering creatures for two days and nights. None still living knew the full tale. One of The Four had been gravely wounded by a poisoned arrow, and he had scrawled a quick account for posterity.

"Beware the green-tipped arrow of the foul savages," he had written. "For when the honorless creatures failed to best us with their numbers in a clean fight, they turned to cowardly poison. Mayhap they are not shrewd enough to make decent poison, for the arrow that struck me has taken many hours to have any effect. Truly, I slew another dozen or so before my arm grew cold and stopped working. Now my legs are dead weight, so I sit like a fat merchant watching my peers take their fill of glory. Sir William of Steward, Sir Gregorious of Hanver, and Dame Oksana of White River still hold the bridge, though all are wounded and the battle has grown perilous. But mark my last words, we have taken a toll on the gargs of the Dark Mountain."

Soon, one by one, the knights walked away from the monument, dispersing like dust to their various castles and battles and quests.

Edward, younger than his peers by some twenty years, was the last knight to leave. A long, ropy scar split an eyebrow, ran down his empty eye socket, and vanished beneath his gorget.

His own shield bore the blue and gold chessboard pattern, similar to one on the monument, of the Steward Clan.

Edward stepped forward and lightly tapped the blue and gold shield with his longsword.

Edward remembered William who had carried it. He had been imperfect in many ways: slow to praise, quick to anger. Often cold and distant. Disinterested.

Edward took out his dagger and made a tiny mark on the shield. Then he dropped a garg chieftain's head on the ground below his father's shield.

He mounted and started his long, solitary ride back to the Dark Mountain. His father's birthday was coming soon, and he had another gift in mind.

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