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Here's a story I've been working on for the past couple of months. I'd been studying Arthurian legend, as well as analyzing the similarities and distinguishing characteristics of Chivalry, Bushido, the Chinese military classics, and the Kshatriya Dharma, and at some point I just got inspired to write this story, so this is a kind of a thesis for the culmination of my research. The central theme of this entire story (or group of stories, if you prefer) is the idea of a code of morality and it's impact on both a personal and societal level, as well as the ever-present struggle between good and evil. This is also my first attempt at a full-blown allegorical story. Reading everything I've written above, I feel like I'm making this sound better than it is sweatdrop .
I'd like to cite Robert Browning's "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came" and the collective works of the Legend of the Five Rings Franchise as very important influences, as well as the Christian Bible for providing me with the tools to make a greater dramatic/literary impact.
In any case, I hope you (that being the collective "you") enjoy it.
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The Righteous Path
Part 1 of 3: There is No Hope
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“A third of the earth was burned up, a third of the trees were burned up, and all the green grass was burned up.” –Revelation 8:7
He had been fighting for a very long time.
The Knight surveyed the blasted landscape from atop a small hill and laid eyes upon a sight that had long since become familiar: blackened earth as far as the eye could see; a wasteland filled with jagged rocks and yawning crevices, as though it had been attacked and forever scarred by some titanic claw. Nothing grew here, save the tangled and poisonous weeds, which by some profane grace thrived in this accursed land. The earth hissed as hot gases were sporadically released from the deep chasms that could be found all about the devastated terrain, and the sky rumbled with a foreboding thunder. Filled with dark clouds to beyond the horizon, one could only distinguish day from night by the baleful red glow of the day to the absolute darkness of the night. The Knight had forgotten what the world had looked like under a blue sky and radiant sun. He had been fighting for a very long time.
The Knight stepped off the mound and over the bodies of two foul creatures he had slain earlier. In his right hand he carried a blade, a fine sword that had served him well, but as a veteran of many battles had grown dull. In his left hand he carried a shield with a golden five-pointed star emblazoned on the front. Once this shining emblem would have made him easily identifiable on the field of battle. But this too had seen many a day of bloodshed, and the gilded star had all but completely lost its luster. Upon his right pauldron sat a tattered cloth. Once it had bourn the emblem of his liege and master. But now it was stained and torn, the symbol beyond recognition, kept only for the faint memories its presence offered. The Knight looked about at his surroundings once more.
The Knight asked of himself, “Is this what has become of the holy land? Aye, so it is, and I would give my life a thousand times to see it returned to it’s blissful state of creation: beautiful meadows and woods of green, the singing of women and the laughter of children (and many other sweet sounds besides) being carried on a soft and cool breeze. And yet so long I have stood among these damned fields, and for so long I have slain demon after demon that I must wonder: are these memories truly memories, or simply the sweet dreams of a man trapped in a world whose present condition of sorrow has in fact been the truth of its history from the beginning? Aye, what I would give to know for certain that my dreams were not simply dreams once upon a time, and may be so once again! For if not, why do we fight? If truly these are and can become nothing more than dreams, would it not be simpler to cast our swords and shields aside and give ourselves up in surrender. A far easier path methinks, than this fighting which may carry on to eternity!”
Another knight approached him, having overheard his lamentations, and placed a hand upon his shoulder, “My friend,” he said in a voice filled with tenderness, “Pray tell what ails thee? I beg thee speak so that I may be of some relief!”
“Ah Tristan, brother mine in knight-hood,” The Knight exclaimed in reply, “though today’s battle has seen its end, I am forced to wonder if we shall ever see success. Each day we have fought, for years beyond counting, and each day more of our number fall while the horde that is our enemy seems to remain countless as ever they were! So long have I stood upon this accursed earth and brought battle against those monsters, I have begun to wonder if the beautiful past I fight for ever truly existed. And if it did not, how can we hope to make a future to match it?”
“Thou would not think to simply give in to our foul enemy, would thee brother?” Tristan said, startled, “Nay, banish all thoughts of such! Come friend, come! I pray thee: feast with us, your brothers, and all shall tell tales of the olden days. Your soul is grieved, ‘tis clear enough to me. So come I say, and let camaraderie and sweet memories be the salves to heal thine heart!”
And so they met, the remnants of a once great host, after another long and furious struggle. As always they found their number to have dwindled. Long ago they had been far greater in size; an army composed of thousands of noble warriors, gathered together to stand against the rising tide of darkness that assailed the good world. And for a time they met success. But as time passed, more and more of those brave men fell to a dark horde that seemed to not diminish but rather grow with each encounter. Now the once mighty legion of knights numbered only two score and ten. With night coming on quickly, these men gathered around a large fire within the center of their encampments.
As small rations of wine were passed around the circle they had formed, there was silence. Looking at the battle-hardened faces of his friends and allies, The Knight thought for a moment that these men had all but forgotten how to speak. He saw doubt in there eyes, and fear. Such a revelation served both to soothe and unnerve him simultaneously: for while it was comforting to know that he was not alone in his affliction, he had to wonder how the last vanguard of goodness could hope to hold out if all of its members were distressed so. It was Sir Tristan who broke the silence, “Brothers! As I look upon thee my heart aches and my soul weeps, for it is clear to me that thy will is battered and thy faith is tested to its limit,” looking about the circle, The Knight saw all of his fellows listening intently to Tristan, “and so I have come before all of you tonight in hopes that we may rekindle the fire that is the faith in our cause, that with this renewed vigor and strength within our hearts we may fight all the better against our foul enemies on the field of battle! And so to this end I propose thus: that each of us tell a story tonight of times past, so that all may partake of the ever uplifting wine that is fond memory!”
There was many a “Hurrah!” and “Here here!” made at this closing remark, and even The Knight could not suppress a smile as the spirit of joviality began to seep through his bloodstained armor. Tristan began the story telling, and every knight in turn recounted a humorous tale or heart-warming memory. The evening wore on, and after the last story was finished those fifty men dispersed to bed, going off to rest for the battle they knew awaited them the next day. The Knight watched them all, and saw beneath their smiling faces a lingering doubt. It had been suppressed, and for the moment, it had been beaten. But The Knight knew that still it sat in the darkest corners of their minds, waiting for the right moment to leap out and drag them down forever into darkness. He shivered and pulled his cloak tightly about himself.
The next day came and went as all days did: raucous shouts followed by the clash of steel in the dim morning signaled the beginning of the fight. A horde of foul beasts demonic in their visage fell upon the righteous defenders with an unholy zeal. And though a righteous man might fall, he was sure to take many agents of evil with him to the grave. But little good that does when the workers of darkness are many and the righteous are few. It was chaos and bedlam set to a backdrop of blood and thunder. The red blood of men and the black blood of monsters mixed on the barren ground, the daily irrigation of these fields of death. They had been fighting this battle for a very long time, each day seeming the same as the last. Today was different.
A new thunder roared, breaking through the din of battle. Cobbled together by those insidious creatures and sitting upon a nearby hill was a new weapon, a machine made of many long and thin barrels. A small demon with a sly grin turned a lever on the machine, making the barrels spin and sending small pieces of screaming death flying towards the noble warriors, making a methodical thunder all the while. The Knight watched in horror as a half-score of his comrades were laid low in mere moments by this diabolical device. Even as he cut down ten of his foes that had been foolish enough to charge at him directly, all he could think of was how such an instrument of destruction was to be stopped.
As The Knight looked back at the hill where that machine was mounted, he saw climbing up the dark and unwatched side of that mound The Red Knight (named for the scarlet cloth which adorned his armor), a cunning and wily fellow who would not shy from employing any kind of trickery or deception on the battlefield, nor any prank or joke off of it. Some might look down on this, but most knew this man for the honorable and virtuous fellow he truly was. Reaching the top of the hill undetected, he proceeded to dispose of the small creature manning the machine that, in its pride, had assumed its position unguarded. The Red Knight dismantled the devilish contraption, throwing all the pieces helter skelter, and letting out a loud cry as he did so. All his brothers on the battlefield shouted in reply and together they charged once more, pushing back the dark army bringing a decisive end to the day’s battle, and early as well, for it could not have been past mid-day yet.
With the battle ended, The Red Knight came to rejoin his friends, and upon his arrival was greeted by the ever lively Sir Dagonet, “Well, done friend! A deep thrust from the back into their hindquarters, as has no doubt always been your tendency in many regards. I daresay it worked well in our favor on this day!”
“That I would share thy enthusiasm brother,” the Red Knight said, his face hardening, “but I’m afraid I carry dire news: upon that hill I did look into the distance and I spied our enemy hauling at least one hundred such machines to their frontline. I should fear going up against them, for I have no doubt it would be the end of us.”
All the knights had gathered now, and looking around in astonishment the usually sanguine Green Knight (called so for the lincoln-green sash he proudly wore) exclaimed, “Are there no more of us left? If my eyes do not deceive me, I would count only twelve of us; thirteen with myself included. I pray thee, any of you, to point out my error, to show me that such a grizzly thought is false!” It was the venerable Sir Ector who answered him, “Nay friend, we are all that is left.” He said no more, for while he was hardened by experience, to know that the great army of brave warriors he had once ridden with was now no more than a collection of thirteen men weighed heavily upon him.
“Cheer up now, friends!” Sir Tristan said, vainly trying to restore some semblance of charisma, “Those monsters shall be smarting for a while I think, so let us head back to camp and take the luxury of a mid-day meal.” A quiet consent was made by all present, and wearily they began to trudge back to the collection of tents, many of which would no longer be needed.
As he marched through the battlefield, The Knight looked down and about every so often, paying respects to any fallen friend he would find; but more often observing the wretched corpses of their enemies. The things, which The Knight had fought on a daily basis for so long, were, in truth, not so different in appearance from him or his comrades. This was only natural: these creatures were once human kind as well, but fell to darkness and became twisted. Now they were thin, pale-skinned monsters with wide eyes and sharp teeth. Most wore makeshift attempts at armor while others wore the real article, having looted the dead on a previous occasion. The Knight stepped over one of these creatures, and upon looking down was immediately reviled: despite its slit throat, the fiend had one hand cupped about its left breast while the other rested down atop its genitals. Even in its death throes this pathetic creature could not deny itself the pleasures of the flesh and had apparently died fondling itself. Nearby, The Knight saw impaled upon a spear another demon, this one wearing a vest made of golden coins. His hands were wrapped around the neck of another demon that wore a similar vestment and held in its hands a long silver necklace. It seemed that the first had succeeded in breaking the neck of the second, but had little time to revel in the spoils. Such were the sights The Knight saw, and many more besides. For these creatures he felt both contempt and pity; it was of their own failing that they were damned to such an existence, yet he could not banish the hope that somehow those still living (if such an existence can be called life) could be redeemed.
As The Knight walked back to the encampment, he turned and in the distance saw a great shape. It stood there, unmoving, every day since the first day he and his fellows had set foot on this desecrated ground. It was a dark spire that seemed to cast its shadow all throughout the land. And though it was far, he knew what it was: it was a tower, no doubt made of the darkest of stones. And at the top, he was sure, sat the leader of the evil hordes. The Great Enemy, the one who had orchestrated the fall of goodness and the spread of evil. If they could defeat this enemy, if they could level that tower and stand victorious atop the ruins, perhaps… no, that was foolish dreaming and it would do him no good. The Knight walked on to catch up with his comrades.
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