Magistrate of the Dark Land

I paused for a moment to whisper the Savior’s Prayer, blessing all those souls proved deserving, and gave the horse a boot, riding toward the bridge where Tremesion waited. The sword was set on my lap so it wouldn’t dangle at my side. “A quarter share is mine for taking your head, Magistrate. I’d have done it for a copper,” Tremesion boasted. “Give me the name of your widow, sheep-boner, and I’ll send the copper to her. It’s all the slutty tramp is worth,” I boldly answered. Tremesion took no affront. His kind was accustomed to such bantering. “It’s time, slayer of slavers. Get off that nag and take up your sword,” he said. I leaned forward as if to dismount, then gave the beast a subtle kick, but the horse didn’t move. I nudged it again without success. The creature just stood there. Finally, frustrated and afraid my scheme would fail, I took a deep breath and I dug my spurs into the horse’s flanks as hard as I could. The steed suddenly reared, let forth a fearsome neigh, and galloped over the bridge straight at the Gibbon leader, the hooves clattering on the thick planks. Tremesion jumped aside at the last minute, his expression twisted in rage. I waved the sword, glad to have it strapped in my fingers, and yanked on the reins to turn the horse left. My heart leapt with joy! The west road was wide open, the enemy caught completely by surprise! Praise God, for a fleeting moment it appeared my mad plan might actually work. Except for one thing. The stubborn beast refused to turn! I desperately pulled again and again but the stallion ignored my commands, charging straight for the town square where dozens of bounty hunters stood in clumps. A final yank on the reins availed me nothing as the horse burst upon the scattering enemy, trampling several. A spear flew past my face. Another jabbed close, ripping my leather vest. The horse made a violent turn causing my sword hand to swing out. The blade bit deeply into a man’s face, cutting him from cheek to ear. One villain attempted to halt the charge only to be stomped by the raging animal. An arrow hit my horse in the neck and he bucked, kicking left and right, spinning and lashing out, but the leather sash kept me in the saddle. My sword found another unlucky victim, inflicting a scalp wound, and a brutal kick of hind legs nearly killed another, but then a spear hit home and the horse started down. I let go of the reins, drew a dagger, and cut myself free as the brave but insane creature collapsed, jerking and neighing in its death throes. After rolling free, I staggered to the Salisbury Cross and crawled up the steps, sitting with my back against the oak post. For a brief moment, the square grew still. I had a sword in one hand, a dagger in the other, and fifty angry rogues crowding forward to cut my throat. Six men lay bent and bleeding on the cobblestones. My knees were weak, my legs gone. My heart pounded like a festival drum. But the freebooters hesitated. Their eyes filled with fear. A tremendous roar filled the air as a pounding shook the earth. Birds burst from the trees as the marauders suddenly fled. And then a shrill bugle sounded the charge. A horse ran past me, and then another. Two more horses. Four. A dozen. Men in armor breastplates carrying lances pursued the freebooters across the town square riding down everyone they could catch. The enemy turned to make a stand at the Crowley Road, forming a rough line. Swords clashed in the waning sunlight. Screams of battle raged in a fight that was brief as it was fierce. The hastily formed line broke under the weight of the cavalry attack, a dozen marauders falling before the mounted lancers. Some of the freebooters retreated toward Trodden Bridge only to find Kaska and the Farina coming at them with weapons flashing. I saw Rotanna strike first, meeting Tremesion sword against sword. The freebooter took the threat lightly, initially, but Rotanna drove him back with a Satanic anger, striking left and right before cutting the Gibbon leader down with a vicious slash to the throat. Fuschia and Obina were quickly at her side, swords drawn but finding no enemies. I tried to stand but only managed to find my feet by clinging to the cross. All about me were disciplined soldiers, and in the lead, I saw a banner. In the dust and distance, I had thought it blue, but I’d been wrong. It was the yellow swallow-tailed banner of Sir Philip of Roxbury. “Do you live, Magistrate?” his daughter asked, drawing her horse up next to me. “Yes, Rowena. Thank you,” I whispered. “Never have I seen so brave a stand. The campfires of a hundred years will sing of your courage,” Rowena said, her eyes wide with admiration. She rode on to join her father. It would take awhile for the absurdity of the remark to sink in. Some of the freebooters ran north on foot. Several plunged into the river, though I doubt they got very far. I breathed a sigh of relief to see Jalana riding over the bridge with her sisters, all apparently safe. As the battle ended, Sir Philip approached with a victorious bounce in his step. His sword still dripped blood. “Thank you, Magistrate,” he said, reaching to shake my hand. “Thank you?” “Your diversionary attack was perfectly timed. The sons-of-bitches must have thought us kin to let the Yellow Banner come on so strongly,” he explained. “Are these the ones you were searching for?” I asked. “Those in green have earned death, with your permission,” Sir Philip requested. “You have command of the field, sir. Act according to your custom,” I gladly offered, in no mood for dispensing justice to those who deserved none. After dragging the bodies into the cemetery and tending our wounded, we purchased a barrel of fine ale from the mercantile, prepared a sumptuous victory feast, and gathered around a bonfire at the edge of town. Jalana sat happily at my side while I lay propped against a log. The Farina healthy enough to indulge selected males for company, and Sir Philip made a point of dividing the freebooters’ spoils, giving my party the lion’s share. I would die a wealthy man if I lived long enough, and it was an extra blessing to have tents, food and fresh clothing for the trail. “I have composed a ballad,” Rowena announced, standing at the campfire. She had changed from the sturdy uniform of the Yellow Banner to a lovely red and green outfit with long white sleeves. An eagle feather adorned her jaunty trail hat as her long blond hair flowed about her shoulders. Three of the Yellow Banner joined her with drum, flute and mandolin. Impromptu songs of this sort were not unusual, so I leaned to back to listen, soon to be startled. After a brief prelude, Rowena sang, “Owen Vander, with his sword Challenged there the grasping hordes Fifty to one in grit and sand Less than god but more than man Slavers by the dozens fell Evil souls cast into hell! And courage now his lasting story Of Salisbury Cross and glory! From the west, in Arbor’s name The Magistrate of honest fame Charging forth on noble steed Invincible in thought and deed And in their scores the slavers fell Vile souls cast into hell! We were there to tell his story Of Salisbury Cross and glory! Redeeming now his kingdom’s woes Standing tall as Satan’s foe Fearing not to make the fight In God’s faith to hold the right And so a hundred slavers fell Soulless scum cast into hell! Forever they will tell his story Of Salisbury Cross and glory!”