Father Knight by Leonard Varasano

May, 1453 A.D.

The clang of steel and shouts of battle had finally died along with the mass of fallen combatants littering the hills of the sunny, rolling meadow. Just four men now remained standing, eyeing one another across the vast expanse of slaughter. Three of the men quickly converged, moving upon the fourth, eyes ablaze with bloodlust. Swinging crescent scimitars over their turbaned heads, in unison they screeched their war cry; a whooping, high-pitched yelp.
The fourth man was a warrior knight with the red cross of a Crusader emblazoned upon his white surcoat. Even with his torso covered by armor, the primitive power of the man was evident. His mighty body and thick-muscled limbs conveyed the strength of a bear, yet as he moved it was with the quickness of a lion.
Desperately he sought a mount, but all the horses were slain or had fled the battlefield unmounted. Having fought the last hour without relent, his broadsword flailed the Turks like a smith upon an anvil. It was kill or be killed once the 300 Turks ambushed his brigade of one hundred men, a relief force en route to the siege of Constantinople, the last remnant of the Roman Empire and final bastion of Christianity in this part of the world otherwise ruled by Sultan Mohammed II, also known as Mehmet, and his Ottoman Empire.
Had the knights been prepared on an open battlefield they would have mounted a charge and counter attack. But through a narrow meadow surrounded by trees and brush they had ridden, and the Turks had burst forth from the woods like a swarm of maddened hornets, smiting the Crusaders, pulling many from their horses. A handful of fortunate knights upon compliant mounts managed to spin and hack and stave off the onslaught.
The knights fought valiantly against the overwhelming force of Turks. Only stout hearts, armor and superior weaponry kept them from swift annihilation. Unable to maneuver effectively, the remaining knights dropped their lances, descending from their mounts to fight back to back with long swords and die together as blood brothers on the field of honor.
For the next hour the ebb and flow of the hacking swarm traversed the meadow, as dying men cried out in agony and living men in fear. From distant treetops, flocks of rooks watched with a scavenger’s patience, sensing a feast would soon to be had.
And then, only four men were left standing.
The solitary knight eyed the advancing threesome as the Turks closed ranks with their adversary, splitting apart so they might attack him from three sides. But the knight had different ideas and moved upon the closest of the three with surprising swiftness, attacking with a devastating arc of steel. The Turk was unable to parry such a savage blow and lost his sword arm in the process. The ensuing counterstroke removed his head.
Of the two remaining Turks, one sprang forth with fatal intent but was quickly reduced to stumbling in headlong retreat, parrying for his life as the knight lashed right and left with his broadsword before landing the killing blow.
Seeing the fate of his comrades, the last Turk standing knew he had no chance alone against this warrior. Turning tail he dashed for the tree line. The knight gave chase but was unable to muster the speed needed to overtake a fleet, unarmored man running for his life. He stopped once the Turk had disappeared into the woods.
The knight turned back to the battlefield littered with contorted, still figures splayed in eternal rest upon the flowered meadow covered with long-stemmed daisies. He watched as the rooks began to descend from the trees like winged shadows.
He must procure a mount if he were to reach Constantinople, he thought, still several days ride from western Rumelia. This was a most hostile land, particularly for a crusader separated from his detachment, who could expect no mercy if captured.
Having little doubt, the escaped Turk would return with reinforcements, the knight knew he must distance himself quickly from his present location. Swiftly searching amongst the corpses, he soon procured a longbow and quiver. Most knights disdained the use of bows, regarding arrows as an unchivalrous weapon for combat. Even the Church prohibited the use of bows as contrary to the laws of humanity, at least during conflict between Christian armies.
Yet now, all alone, his survival might depend upon his ability with the longbow.
He removed the red cross emblazoned surcoat from his mail, folding the cloth and placing it beneath the arrows at the bottom of the quiver. He then unfastened his body armor and let it drop to the ground, sighing with relief from the heavy burden of steel. Yet, he kept his chain mail upon his torso, not wishing to be totally devoid of protection.
His black hair had grown long and his skin bronze during the journey from Bretagne, and he was hoping this would allow him to go unchallenged in the event he was observed from a distance. Yet, blue eyes were a virtual rarity in this part of the world, and the knight realized his would likely betray him during a close encounter.
The knight remained close to the tree line, trying to keep his bearing in the general direction of Constantinople. He watched the afternoon through as the sun moved slowly across the sky, finally disappearing behind pastel clouds of pink and yellow, fanning from the horizon to meld with the purple pall of the overhead sky. As the sun dropped and the world grew dim, he made camp upon an escarpment of boulders beside a small stream.
Drinking from the clear waters and cleansing the cuts, he sustained during battle, he stood and held his great sword by the blade before him so that the skyward hilt formed the sign of the cross. He thanked the Lord for allowing him to survive the day and prayed to again see his wife and son in this life.
Though exhausted, he slept poorly that night; fitful, fleetingly dark dreams pervaded his slumber, swarming with indistinct, flittering shadows. More than once he awakened with a start. But the woods were silent save the usual thrum of a spring night.
The silence was shattered as the red moon crossed midnight. Carried from afar on the night wind were horror-filled, throaty equine cries mixed with maniacal shrieks, the latter neither feline nor wolf in origin, instead possessing an eerily hyena-like timbre with human undertone. The sounds of mortal pursuit, the age-old chase between predator and prey had met the knight’s ears, and it was an awful sound to behold: The screams of terrified horses running from carnivorous predators of unknown origin.
He stood and cupped a hand to his ear to get a bearing on the direction of the chase. It was from the east where the howling and shrieks carried on for considerable length, preventing him from snatching more sleep. Even when he covered his ears the sound permeated his consciousness, adding to the despair of his predicament.
The cries kept up the night through, though eventually, only the vocalization of the predators was apparent; a primordial sorting of predatory eating arrangements, ceasing only as the first rays of dawn poked over the horizon.
In the ensuing silence the knight’s stomach growled loudly as he realized his own famishment. He searched the wood line for sustenance, finally locating some tubers growing beneath green fronds, rooting them out with his knife. In the stream he rinsed them off then downed them quickly. They weren’t filling but grew in plentiful lots so he munched away till his panging stomach didn’t feel quite so empty. Digging out several more for his travel, he left his camp and headed east in the direction of Constantinople.
With much caution he proceeded, careful to be on guard while remaining vigilant to his surroundings, mindful of how quickly the Turks had materialized and attacked the day before. He hoped to locate a war mount; yet realized he’d be grateful for any horse. A knight without his mount was still a formidable warrior, but no knight would evade the advantage that a horse would bring to the field of battle.
The sun hadn’t moved far across the sky when the knight’s trail drew narrow; bare plains gave way to clumps of oaks and alder and then dense wood within a small dale with steep cliffs on one side and the forest on the other. He soon came upon a carcass buzzing with flies he did not at first recognize. Only upon close examination did he identify a horse, or rather, what was left of it. The body was stripped of flesh. Many of the bones had been removed but some had been split open for marrow and discarded. Only the silky mane and flecks of hide remained atop a narrow strip of reedy backbone that hadn’t been gnawed away.
The knight felt cold moisture bead his flesh. Being without a horse, lost in a hostile land presented a nearly insurmountable challenge; now, finding signs that he had crossed paths and might indeed cross again with creatures that would strip a carcass bare and break bones for marrow…
Expanding his search, he came upon several more carcasses within close proximity of the forest. At least one was a knight’s mount, with the telltale red cross shredded and bloodstained as it lay on the earth, along with a ruined saddle raked through with devastating claw marks.
The tracks surrounding the carcasses were nondescript, as countless imprints piled upon one another, pressing into the soft loam and rendering them shapeless.
Suddenly, the knight whirled, facing the forest, abruptly cognizant the world was utterly silent except for his own movement. Drawing his sword, he sensed that he was being watched. Yet his eyes could detect nothing amiss amongst the dark rows of trees, where the overhead branches grew together like a canopy of interlocked fingers, keeping the forest floor in a perpetual state of twilight by day.
The predatory cries from the previous night belonged to the pack of creatures that drove the horses through the forest to the base of steep cliffs within a blind gorge, where the terrified animals were easier to corral and slaughter. The hyena-like cries he had heard when the moon had crossed midnight would certainly have frightened a horse into sheer panic.
But the cries in the night wind were neither hyena, wolf nor lion, and the knight’s uneasiness grew by the moment with the prospect of meeting such savage creatures when darkness again cloaked the world.
Slowly the knight continued on, extra vigilant, as there was no guarantee the predators were exclusively nocturnal. Of course, there was still the Turk factor and the prospect of being captured.
Being slain in combat he did not fear; crusading knights were God’s warriors, accepting doctrine to defend the honor of their faith with their lives.
Enduring capture by bloodthirsty infidels renowned for inhuman cruelty was an entirely different matter. No sane man would long entertain thoughts of such a depraved ending.
The knight’s trek followed the general direction of the morning star and had thus remained in close proximity to the meandering stream in which he had quenched his thirst after the battle.
As the sun moved across the sky, the knight followed the stream, eventually emptying into a slow-flowing river of dark water. Here, his uneasiness grew. The river led in the general heading of Constantinople, yet followed into the deep woods, which the knight was leery of entering. But from his present position the plains extended to the south.
The knight chose to follow east and entered the woods, which soon grew dark with interlocking tree branches that made his surroundings no brighter than dusk.
Entering the forest he again noticed the silence, a foreboding lack of sound more reminiscent to that of a catacomb than a deciduous habitat. Aside from the river, it was difficult for him to see more than a few paces in any direction with the density of the tree growth.
The noise of his steps seemed unnaturally loud, so he reduced his pace accordingly until he could scarcely hear his own movement. He followed the river the day through, stopping occasionally to quench his thirst. As the sun crossed midday, the knight thought of nightfall, and he hoped that the river would again open upon the plains so he wouldn’t spend the night in the forest.
The forest was too silent, too eerie. He neither saw nor heard any creatures at all, not even a jay or a squirrel. The silence was unnatural, contrary to the nature of how the denizens of such a splendid wood should behave.
As the sun began its descent, the woods grew darker still. The knight paused only to drink, warily moving in the general direction that he believed Constantinople to be. As a consummate warrior, yesterday’s battle was certainly not his first engagement, though it was his first action outside of western Europe. He lamented the loss of so many knightly brother-at-arms, but his predicament did not allow him the luxury of dwelling upon the past.
As the sun drifted lower still, he rounded a sharp bend in the river. Suddenly, through a glade of trees his eyes caught the distinct contour of a row of dwellings, as well as the shape of a tiny hut set upon a small island, more an islet adjacent to the village. He froze in his tracks, peering through leafy thickets surrounding the thick trunk of an ancient oak for a hint of movement, a sign of life.
There were a dozen small wattle and thatch huts, each with an adjacent livestock pen. A larger structure that could have been a meeting or worship house stood towards the rear of the agrarian village.
The knight thought it odd that there was no one outside, working or otherwise. The village certainly looked abandoned. No people. No livestock. Not a hint of movement, even a drift of smoke from a chimney.
And, of course, the omnipotent embrace of unwavering silence.
With wary eye the knight inched his way toward the village, with instincts whetted by the surreal stillness enveloping his bewildered senses, for never before had he encountered such a dearth of life in so pristine and viable a setting.
He entered the village through a row opening between two of the huts. Glancing in the windows on either side, he noted the meager furniture and contents had been overturned in each dwelling, the front door left ajar. Working his way around he searched within for a sign of life but encountered naught save a state of upheaval, as if a fierce struggle had occurred within the violated sanctity of each residence. The door of every house had been shattered from the outside; no small feat, the knight grimly noted, for the wood planks comprising the doors were of stout and sturdy design.
Indeed, signs of mortal combat permeated the village: Smears of dried blood abounded throughout the floors and walls of the houses; crimson-clotted swords, knives and axes lie scattered, dropped by armed defenders who had vanished without a trace.
The knight made his way towards the rear of the village where stood the large structure he had yet to search. This windowless building was comprised of stone and mortar, which led the knight to believe there were provisions stored within. Here too, the door had been smashed open, and the knight scanned the dim interior for a hint of what lie within.
After a few moments his eyes distinguished the glint of metal upon the ground, and the knight sensed that the structure had been used as a last stand against the horde that had decimated the village, his eyes detecting steel weaponry dropped by the defenders.
Next to the door the knight found a bracket supporting a pitch-soaked torch, and after several strikes of flint upon steel he was able to ignite a flame. Sure enough, his instincts had been true, for the glint of metal he had seen on the ground were swords and hacking implements with blood-clotted blades. Swinging the torch around, he saw that if indeed there had been provisions, then they had disappeared with the villagers, except for several wax-sealed casks piled high against the walls. Upon closer examination, beneath the wavering display of light and shadows, he saw that some of the casks were marked in Latin: Meli Maenomenon.
“Meli Maenomenom…raving honey,” the knight whispered to himself, versed in the language of the Church as he was in four other tongues. He had heard of the early-spring honey made by bees when the first flowers to bloom were of a poisonous nature: azalea, rhododendron, oleander. But the reason why the villagers would have stockpiled casks of a natural, toxic elixir eluded him. The Latin inscription was equally puzzling, though he recalled Roman Legions had invaded this land centuries before. He made a mental note to search the unmarked casks.
Before he could contemplate the mystery further, a distant sound pierced the utter silence: the plaintive cry of a small child, a wail of hopeless misery.
The knight left the stone structure and emerged outside, trying to get a bearing on the sound. Quickly he isolated the source originating from near the river, and in that direction he headed without delay.
Approaching the dark, churning water, he saw two children standing outside the hut on the small islet, perhaps a leap and five swim strokes from the shore. A young girl was trying to calm an inconsolable, smaller boy.
“Hello!” the knight called out. The children spun towards shore. Startled, the girl pulled the boy inside of the hut and the lad seized crying. A moment later the knight saw two dirty, bewildered faces staring out at him from the hut’s tiny cutout window.
“Hello,” he called out again and waved, though no response was returned and the children continued to stare. As he stepped towards the river’s edge, he was able to detect the haggard, forlorn expressions. Looking exhausted and famished, dark circles surrounded their sunken eyes.
The knight searched for a way to cross the water. There were a few small, flat-prowed boats that a fisherman would use, but all had crushed hulls. He could have easily swum the distance but didn’t wish to wet his chain mail, especially with the day growing shorter. He saw a length of rope coiled upon a hook on the side of a hut and soon fashioned a loop knot that caught a stout branch upon one of many islet-side trees. Swinging over the water, he landed and secured the rope before slowly approaching the hut.
“Come outside, children. I am a friend,” the knight called out.
The children remained within the hut. Slowly, the knight approached, ducking his large frame down so he was eye level with the window. The children backed away, cowering in the shadows.
“I am a friend,” he repeated, and this time he could read the expression on their faces and see that not only were they terrified, but also could not understand what he had said. He thought of his own son, so far away.
Then he remembered the tubers and removed some from his pouch, placing them on the sill. Backing away, several moments passed before a small hand swept the food inside, followed by the crunching bites of ravenous children.
The knight smiled, pleased at the smaller pleasures that life still had to offer. Placing more tubers on the sill, he noted the small hand reappeared and the tubers disappeared more quickly than the first offering. He allowed the crunching to stop before he glanced inside again. He spoke to the children again in the tongues that he knew, even tried Latin, all of which elicited the same, unknowing stares.
After several awkward moments, it was the girl who broke the silence, but it was a tongue with which the knight was unfamiliar. Yet, the attempt at communication was a positive step, as the children’s demeanor had lightened considerably.
Through hand gestures and labored articulations, the knight learned the girl’s name was Zara, the boy’s Zoltan. When he pointed to himself and told them his name was “Guillame,” the children laughed as if that was the most amusing thing ever. They pronounced his name as “Geel-im,” and he left it at that.
Guillame gestured toward the village, and the laughter disappeared. Zara and Zoltan exchanged anxious glances, their dark brown eyes wide with fear. “Stra-ga,” Zara uttered, suddenly moving her writhing hands in a wide, splay-fingered, clawing motion. She hissed, flashing white teeth, as would an enraged animal to expose its canines. She continued speaking but it was gibberish to Guillame’s ears. Standing behind Zara, Zoltan eerily mimicked his sister’s actions.
Watching the children, Guillame felt chills moving up and down his spine. He understood that whatever had attacked and decimated the village was witnessed firsthand by these children, and surely they were not mimicking a human foe. Now, he recalled the cries that he’d heard the night before, and the remnants of equine carnage he discovered in the morning, sensing both were related to the fate of this village.
Guillame decided to search the village more thoroughly, not only for additional clues, but also to find some food. He gestured his intent to the children. As he moved toward the rope Zara began to rant, first pointing towards the sun descending behind the trees, then uttering “Stra-ga” while continuing her imitation of writhing hands and gleaming teeth.
Guillame nodded towards the girl. “I shall return shortly…you and your brother remain here.” The knight could sense that the children did not want him to leave, attached to him already despite their short initiation. Zoltan appeared on the verge of tears.
Perhaps, Guillame wondered, they thought he would not return. He took a few moments to convey his intentions to them through gestures. The children appeared more at ease; yet still, there was no doubt they were preoccupied with the descending sun and Guillame’s return to the heart of the village.
Guillame used the rope to return across the water. Once ashore he commenced a house-by-house search. Everywhere, signs of struggle of the life and death variety: swords, pikes and weaponry dropped with bloodied, clotted blades, yet, neither a sign nor trace of a solitary body.
The village was small enough so the search did not take long. He returned to the large, windowless structure for a second time, determined to find something of substance within besides the poisoned honey.
Pushing open the stout door, he rekindled the wall torch and began a thorough search.
Shortly, he discovered another set of barrels behind the casks of honey. Using the hilt of his sword, he cracked one open, peering within at the black, viscous contents that emanated a familiar, tar-like odor: pitch. Judging from the quantity of barrels, Guillame knew the village did not have problems with leaky roofs, but this discovery would do nothing to fill the stomachs of the children and him.
The pile of barrels contained no more surprises. Guillame resumed his search of the storehouse interior by wavering torchlight. As he moved towards a corner far from the light of the entrance, he saw an interior door with a dead bolt latch on the chamber side, perhaps a cold cellar pantry or even a makeshift jail. As he approached, he was startled to hear movement from within.
Lowering himself to the floor, he tried to look under the space between the door and the ground, but there was no light to glean from the other side.
“Hello…can you hear me?” Guillame called forth, but was met by silence. He recalled how Zara and Zoltan had remained quiet during their first encounter and figured that whoever was there likely could not understand him either. “I’ll open the door.”
Lifting the dead bolt bar from its latch, Guillame slowly drew the door back, holding the torch aloft. There was a long moment as his eyes peered beyond, detecting a pile of sacks on the floor, but the depth of the room tested the limits of his torchlight.
Suddenly, a horrible shriek burst forth as something huge shot out of the darkness like a thunderbolt and was upon Guillame in an instant. Dropping the torch, he threw up his right arm and canine-like jaws closed on it, driving the mail links into his massive forearm. Huge, misshapen yet man-like hands clutched for his throat, but he eluded them with a grappling heave and roll of his whole body while drawing his dagger with his free hand.
Tumbling over and over upon the storeroom floor, the knight and his adversary tore at one another in a brutal whirlwind thrash of limbs with all the tearing and rending of a fiendish fight to the death. The muscles twisting under the creature’s clammy, slick flesh were wiry like cables, exceeding the strength of a man. But Guillame was no ordinary man, and his mail saved him from the gnashing fangs and slashing claws long enough for him to repeatedly drive home the point of his dagger. The horrid vivacity of the creature seemed boundless, and Guillame’s flesh crawled at the feel of the revolting skin. Putting all his aversion behind his stabbing blade, the creature suddenly heaved up beneath him then sank limply back as the point found its ghastly heart.
Guillame stood, stunned with the near-death exertion. He swept sweat and blood out of his eyes. Blood dripped from his dagger and fingers, and trickled in rivulets down his thighs, arms and chest.
Grabbing the sputtering torch from the floor, he held the light over the creature that he’d slain, gasping at the horror illuminated before him: the body of a semi-human monstrosity, covered with hairless, dark gray skin. Claws protruded from finger vestiges; its malformed head had huge, hyena-like jaws and fangs, flared nostrils and the fierce, dead eyes staring up at him were soulless as they were red. The stink of rotting flesh permeated the air.
“Stra-ga,” Guillame muttered, recalling the children’s warning. Somehow this monster had been locked within the storehouse during the attack upon the village, its primitive mind unable to negotiate the workings of a deadbolt latch. Guillame was grateful there had been just one, for if two had been locked within…
Suddenly, a howl sounded from the woods, the same sort as he’d heard the night before, only much closer. Glancing outside, Guillame noted that darkness had indeed begun to fall. He grabbed two of the sacks from the inner room where the Stra-ga had been trapped and tucked them in his belt and hurriedly made his way to the outer door.
Drawing his sword he stepped outside, noting that the sun had fallen well behind the tree line so the village was now steeped in dark shadows. Guillame had barely taken two steps when he saw that red-eyed, slinking gray shadows were closing in on all sides. Once again, a hideous smell of putrefied flesh reeked up the night air.
As the howls of the damned met his ears, Guillame swung his broadsword and torch like one possessed, hacking his way towards the water. Absently, he could hear the faint cries of the children shrieking, and he prayed a silent prayer that they weren’t being attacked, for he had no way of knowing that they could see his mortal predicament and were simply screaming with fear that he’d be slain as were their brethren.
Fangs flashed and snapped at him in the torchlight, foul talons snatched at him, but he fought his way to the water’s edge, splitting malformed heads, severing grotesque limbs.
Halfway to the islet, at the top of a huge, narrow boulder tall as a man he leapt, surrounded by the lake on three sides. There, clearly avoiding the water, the Stra-ga could only attack him frontally from beneath, forcing them to reach up into a whirling, slicing blade and a searing torch. The ghouls eventually backed off to regroup against this insurmountably positioned foe armed with fire and steel.
Guillame took full advantage of the lull, sprinting towards the escape rope. Hurling the sacks to the islet, he two-handedly swung his broadsword at a splinter group of Stra-ga that attacked him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see dozens swiftly moving his way and he redoubled his strokes, smiting with a vengeance.
At last he had made his way to the rope and swung just out of reach as a score of fouled paws clawed at him, rasping his mail. Swinging across the water, he heard a rearward splash as he landed and fastened the rope, sword ready. He saw that one of the Stra-ga had attempted to pursue him, thrashing and disappearing beneath the dark water in a struggling froth. They sink like rocks, Guillame gratefully noted.
With that he dropped to his knees, then his back, gulping for air, his superhuman effort finally taking its toll. No sooner did he lie down than he noticed tiny hands were touching him, blotting his myriad of wounds with rags, clamoring for his attention. Zara and Zoltan greeted him like a conquering champion and he embraced them in return, thankful that his prayer had been answered and they were still safe. “See if there’s food,” he said, gesturing towards the sacks, speaking loudly as if the children understood him over the howls of the enraged creatures on shore lamenting over the meal that got away.
Glancing to the darkened village, Guillame saw that the ghouls remained hugging the shoreline, howling, gesticulating wildly towards the children and him, their red eyes and flashing fangs lining every available space of the water’s edge twenty deep. There were scores of the beasts, perhaps hundreds. The raucous sound emanating from them was a cacophony of the damned, simultaneously chilling and maddening.
After catching his breath, Guillame thought it was high time for longbow target practice. Wearily he stood, procuring his longbow and quiver. Though he had scarcely enough arrows to dwindle the bestial pack, perhaps he could thin the ranks by frightening some back into the woods.
Bending down, he splashed water upon his face, then removed an arrow from the quiver, nocked his bow, taking aim at the loudest and biggest of the beasts. As he let loose there was a whir followed by a scream louder than the rest as the target tore at the quaking arrow embedded in its chest. Guillame noted the creature’s human-like posture of agony, but only for a moment as the surrounding ghouls tore the mortally wounded beast limb from limb. That explained the absence of corpses, thought the knight, for not only were the Stra-ga predacious but cannibalistic.
Guillame fired several more arrows, each finding the mark, but the effect on dissipating the pack was negligible, so the knight decided to save the remaining arrows for when he might truly need them.
Guillame noticed the children squatting over the sacks he had procured, munching away, seemingly oblivious to the blood curdling hyena-like screams sounding from but a few yards away. Sauntering over, he looked down at the children, and they both held up their sacks and offered him the bounty within: turnips. Ravenous, Guillame took one from each bag, rinsed them in the water then quickly devoured them, nearly forgetting in his hunger that he despised turnips. He let the children eat their fill.
The Stra-ga remained at the water’s edge, the howling unabated. Guillame ushered Zara and Zoltan inside the hut and followed them, hoping the ghouls would forget their presence if they were out of sight. But there was no such fortune, and he now understood the haggard looks the children possessed from the sleepless nights of yore. Through the darkness he noticed as they curled up on their sides with their hands over their ears, and he tried the same, and though he could still hear the noise, the cries were somewhat diminished.
Then he remembered that he’d forgotten something. Exiting the hut, he stood and held his great sword by the blade before him so that the skyward hilt formed the sign of the cross. As he did the night before, and countless nights since leaving home, he prayed to the Lord to again see his wife and son in this life. And now, he prayed for the lives of the children whose lives he now guarded.
Lowering himself so he was seated upon the ground, facing towards the lake center away from the howling beasts, he contemplated his dire predicament. Though daylight was far off, he could wait until sunrise and the diurnal disappearance of these monsters, then put himself many miles away before the sun would set once more. But, with the children, he’d be unlikely to cover such ground. Even if he decided to attempt that, there was no guarantee that they’d escape the Stra-ga’s zone of influence.
As a chivalrous knight, he was compelled to protect those unable to defend themselves. Yet, he stood alone against a horde of ghouls, the progeny of what God only knew, perhaps an unholy mating between a lost race of men with demons of the underworld, perchance Satan himself.
Entering the hut, he prayed again and covered his ears with his hands, lying down, hoping the night would move quickly. He fell into a fitful, restive sleep where furtive, anthropomorphic shapes slunk in and out of the shadows of an accursed tomb surrounded by impenetrable forest.
Guillame awoke with a start as a loud explosion shook the air. Jumping up, realizing that a thunderstorm had moved in, he sensed the winds shaking the trees that surrounded the hut. Glancing outside, he saw the writhing outlines of the Stra-ga still upon shore through the darkness, then saw their putrid bodies in bold relief as the lightning briefly illumined the world. A whimper touched his ears and he looked within the hut to find Zara and Zoltan huddling together, afraid. He gave them a reassuring pat then continued watching the fury of the storm.
The swirling wind quickly drowned out the howling ghouls, and the sporadic sound of falling tree limbs soon pervaded the air. Guillame hoped that the hut would be spared; yet when he heard the unmistakable sound of an exploding tree struck by lightning, followed by the rending groan of the falling trunk, he knew no good could come from that.
The hut had been spared, but a mighty oak had fallen from the rim of the shore onto the tiny islet, bridging the water. Alarmed at this terrible development, Guillame ran from the hut, drawing his broadsword, leaping upon the trunk to intercept just as one of the Stra-ga began to cross from the shore. Swinging with two hands in devastating arcs like a man possessed, Guillame quickly slew the first ghoul with a decapitating slice, then recoiled as the headless body splashed into the water on one side of the tree, the misshapened head on the other.
Alone, with the howling, clawing creatures surging directly at him, Guillame made his final stand on the thick, horizontal trunk of the oak, holding his ground, hacking his way through the rain swept night. There the Stra-ga could attack him just one at a time, and before the dawn could even show first light, the remaining ghouls dragged away their wounded and dead and had slunk off to their hiding place, giving up on this indomitable foe dispensing death with the kiss of sharpened steel.
It was a gray, bleak dawn as the storm abated, yet the light was a welcome relief to the exhausted knight. The air had grown silent since the remaining Stra-ga had melted into the woods. Turning, he saw Zara and Zoltan watching him from the window of the hut, barely able to keep their eyes open. They had watched the night through as he repelled the fanged devils time and again with a magnificent display of swordsmanship their young minds could scarcely comprehend.
Guillame entered the structure, gesturing for the children to lie down. Once they had done so he covered them with a blanket to ward off the morning chill. “You two sleep now,” he said soothingly. “Quiet should prevail…at least until dusk.” The children did not understand his words, yet understood the tone of his voice. It was the first time within recent memory they felt safe, with this mighty warrior guarding over them. Within minutes, Guillame heard the gentle breathing of slumbering children.
Waiting for the daylight to grow stronger before venturing into the village, he formulated his plan. He couldn’t chance attempting escape with two small, exhausted children. The ghouls might range far beyond the distance he and the children could travel before dusk. Realizing that more than a solitary, sharp broadsword was needed, he remembered the sundry contents of the storeroom and nodded grimly, recalling the adage: All is grist that comes to the mill.
Hours later, Guillame appraised his work. The barrels of poisoned honey had been unsealed and repositioned. Casks of pitch had been opened, contents strategically poured and fortified with dried straw. It was imperative for Guillame’s plan to draw the Straga to the area surrounding the storehouse and the shoreline. The honey would hopefully appeal to the ghoul’s sweet tooth, if indeed the creature’s had one. Guillame knew that most animals did, and the barreled honey certainly smelled like ordinary honey to him.
The storeroom pantry pickings were slim, but Guillame found more sacks of turnips and a sack of dried figs, and the three ate with relish, eventually blunting their hunger. Guillame gathered a huge stack of firewood, piling mounds near the water’s edge, then on the islet to prepare for nightfall.
Opening a couple casks of pitch, he covered the fallen tree and ignited it. Within hours the fire had burned through the trunk and the makeshift bridge was no more.
With the sun overhead he rested, catching some much needed sleep.
As daylight dimmed and shadows grew, the children tensed as another horror-filled night loomed. Guillame tensed too, silently praying for his plan to succeed, thus allowing them to depart the forsaken village once dawn arrived.
Finally, the sun disappeared behind the tree line. As the shadows turned into night, the first cry shattered the silence. A retort sounded from another part of the woods, then another and another until the cacophony of the damned had returned in full resonance, swiftly enveloping the village perimeter. Within moments abhorrent shapes flitted amongst the deserted huts, soon to converge upon the shoreline; feral, red eyes set upon the three humans with predacious intent. Screaming, howling, gesticulating with thrashing limbs and gnashing, slavering fangs, the Stra-ga had returned in full force, fixated on the flesh and blood meal but a few yards beyond their horrid reach.
Guillame waited for the initial phase of his plan to materialize, and long he did not have to wait. A series of disturbances arose behind the convergence on shore, and soon the attention of all the ghouls was drawn to the casks of honey. Through the darkness Guillame saw the beasts as they pawed and snorted the elixir into their gaping maws, and with the dozens of barrels he had affixed throughout the village square, the Stra-ga all had an ample taste and then some within a short while.
With burning intensity Guillame watched as the actions of the Stra-ga slowed with the passing of the moments. The vocalizations dwindled and ceased; one by one the ghouls fell to the ground, some fighting the paralysis with awful convulsions before succumbing, others dropping as if turned to stone by a visual encounter with Medusa.
Utter silence soon prevailed. Guillame took up his longbow and fired flaming arrows into the pitch-soaked woodpiles he had prepared. Raging flames quickly illuminated the village, casting wavering shadows upon the huts and storehouse. The prostate bodies of the Stra-ga formed a macabre terrain; limbs and torsos threshed together as if dropped randomly by the gods above.
Guillame had no way of knowing how long the paralysis would remain in effect. Hastily, he gathered his sword and the lances he had prepared, gestured to the children his intentions, then swung to shore. Creeping among the mass of hideous bodies, he noticed that the ghouls were alive but in a state of stupor, unable to move in a voluntary manner. Some moaned; others snored, not unlike a gathering of severely intoxicated humans.
Despite his revulsion for these abhorrent creatures, Guillame decided against cremating them while alive, resolving to end this humanely as possible. One by one, he put the ghouls under the sword, his gleaming blade whirling by firelight. Occasionally, a ghoul groaned or whimpered as it was impaled, but death came quickly, unlike the horrific pain of incineration, which Guillame had witnessed more than once when Greek Fire had been deployed during battles in which he was a combatant.
At last, Guillame’s blade rested. Near the water’s edge he wiped down his sword. He noticed the children watching him from the window of the islet’s hut. Nodding, he called out to them. “Now…it is safe…tomorrow we shall leave for Constantinople!”
Soon after sunrise, Guillame prepared the children for the departure. Before allowing them to leave the islet, he crossed the water into the village, piling the dead Stra-ga to a wide mound, emptying casks of pitch upon the corpses, then hemming the heap with bales of dried straw also soaked in accelerant.
Once the children had returned to the village, they naturally avoided the malevolent mass of dead ghouls that Guillame had prepared for cremation, so he escorted them to the path they would take as they departed the village. “Wait for me here, children…I shall only be a moment.” Zara and Zoltan looked up to the knight with big, brown, teary eyes, sensing that they’d soon be leaving the village where they’d spent all of their days since birth. Gesturing toward one of the huts they passed, Zara ran towards it and pushed open the door, followed by her brother. “Mama? Papa?”
Standing silently at the door, Guillame allowed the children a final look and rummage through the ransacked interior. Zara retrieved a rag doll, Zoltan a carved lion. Taking Zoltan by the hand, Zara faced Guillame and nodded, tears streaming down her face.
As they left the village, Guillame tossed a smoldering torch upon the corpse pile, and soon black, viscous smoke arose from the flaming inferno of the pyre.
Traveling the day through, the trio stopped only to slake their thirst. Crossing rolling plains of amber grass and lush meadows swathed with yellow poppies, Guillame stooped and affixed a particularly dainty blossom in Zara’s long, wavy brown hair. As the sun began its descent, Guillame walked with Zoltan slumbering upon his back. Before dusk he carried Zara, too, in his arms.
At long last he stopped as the last rays of the sun poked over the purple hills in the distance, a smudge of pink, red and orange fading fast to meld with the darkening sky. Overhead, the stars had already blinked out. Atop a prairie knoll overlooking a wide, shallow stream flowing with water the hue of jade he stopped, lowering the slumbering children to the ground. Soon, after his prayers he joined them, and a serene night of peaceful dreams became theirs.
At first light Guillame managed to spear a couple silver-scaled fish from the stream. Building a small fire, he and the children ate well for the first time in days, complemented by the supply of figs and turnips Zoltan carried in one sack. The boy carried another smaller sack, too, but was evasive when Guillame inquired about the contents, to which the knight shrugged off, figuring that’s where the lad’s carved lion was stashed.
As the sun reached its zenith, they topped the crest of a gently sloping hill. Guillame glimpsed, afar, across rolling plains, the blue and golden towers atop the huge walls of his destination. “There is Constantinople,” he pointed. The children looked at the distant parapets in awe, for they had never seen nor imagined so large and grand a structure could exist. They pressed on.
Guillame first sensed something amiss when they passed blackened expanses comprising the city’s hinterlands that had been rich fields and saw the gaunt, charred remains of burned houses jutting against the sky.
His suspicions were confirmed when they drew within viewing distance of the city walls, only to observe the flags unfurled upon the parapets were not of Byzantine design with the telltale cross. Festooning the heights in their place, a white crescent moon and a solitary star, enclosed within the backdrop of a green banner; Constantinople had indeed fallen to the Ottoman Turks. Everywhere the great wall surrounding the city was deeply pockmarked by cannon bombardment; whole rampart sections had collapsed, evidence of the incessant hail of missile salvos.
Guillame’s psyche was devastated; the sole survivor of an ill-fated relief party unable to reach a doomed city in time, his manly worth evaporated in a pall of hopelessness, and he sank to his knees, overwhelmed by this most unanticipated stroke of misfortune.
Of course, the knight’s sudden change of heart was not lost on the children, who, though ignorant of the cause, could not help but sense his palpable despair. Placing tiny hands on his massive shoulders, they commiserated with their hero.
The children’s touch brought Guillame around. Looking into their troubled eyes, he realized the eventuality of his own tribulation was not his first priority.
Doubts assailed him. He had planned on transferring guardianship of the children to the custody of St. Sofia’s, but that prospect was unlikely now. The probability of he returning home through the hostile land afoot, alone, unscathed was bleak; with two, small children the chances were nil. Yet, he could not simply point them to the city’s gate. The fates had purposely brought them together, he knew. It was all part of God’s plan.
Guillame knew trouble was upon them as a mounted squad of twelve heavily armed Ottoman Janissaries emerged from the woods to the south, heading directly to their position. There was nowhere to run. For a long moment he thought of drawing his sword but knew there was no chance against a dozen soldiers upon horseback. The leader barked at Guillame, but the knight could not understand him. Soon half the soldiers had dismounted and surrounded the knight and began searching him. It wasn’t long before the white surcoat he’d stashed earlier was discovered beneath his quiver of arrows.
Guillame was bound and forced to run tethered behind a soldier’s horse. A terrified Zara and Zoltan were briefly questioned and then placed in the saddle behind soldiers. The procession headed towards the great walls of the fallen city, only to veer off from the main entrance to enter a postern. Once inside Guillame was separated from the children, questioned briefly in a dialect he could scarcely understand, shackled, given a perfunctory beating, then thrown in a small dungeon with heavy stone walls to which his chains were fastened. His captors took the torch that illuminated the procession, and as they locked the heavily barred door behind them and disappeared up the corridor, the darkness and silence they left behind enveloped Guillame and remained unchallenged.
After the fall of Constantinople, thousands of Ottoman soldiers poured into the city. One after the other the city gates were opened. Flags bearing the crescent moon and solitary star began appearing on the walls, on the towers, on the Palace at Blachernae. Civilians in panic rushed to the perceived sanctuary of churches. Others locked themselves in their homes; some continued fighting in the streets; and crowds hastened towards the port area. A few allied ships remained and began collecting refugees, yet soon departed as word of the overthrow circulated, thereby stranding thousands.
The debauchery which followed during the early hours of the Moslem onslaught was a common practice, almost a ritual, among all armies, civilized and uncivilized, capturing enemy strongholds and territory after a prolonged and violent struggle. Bands of soldiers began looting. Doors were broken; private homes were pillaged; their tenants massacred. Shops in the city markets were plundered. Monasteries and convents were invaded; their priests slain; nuns were raped; and many, to avoid dishonor, killed themselves.
Screams of anguish mingled with shouts of blood lust in a cacophonous din; slaughter, carnage, raping, looting, burning, enslaving were carried out with equal zeal according to despicable tradition, for the conquerors had to satiate pent-up, ardent yearnings. The great doors of Saint Sophia cathedral were forced open, and throngs of maddened soldiers entered and fell upon the unfortunate worshippers. Pillaging and killing went on in the holy place for hours. Similar was the fate of worshippers in other houses of worship in the city. The new masters of the conquered realm took everything that could be taken from the grand buildings; in the process icons were destroyed and precious manuscripts lost forever. Many thousands of civilians were enslaved; soldiers fought over young women and young boys. Death and enslavement did not distinguish among social classes: noble and peasant were treated with equal ruthlessness.
The Sultan, with his top commanders and royal guard of Janissaries, entered the city in the late afternoon of the first day of occupation. Long had it been his intention to make Constantinople the capital of his mighty Ottoman Empire, and now the final jewel of the proverbial crown was finally his.
Touring the ruined city, the Sultan saw the ghastly display of Emperor Constantine’s severed head spiked upon the column of Augusteum. After visiting Saint Sophia he ordered the cathedral to be turned into a mosque. Yet, he also ordered an immediate end to the killing, for what he saw was an all-pervading swath of death, desolation, devastation; everywhere, contorted bodies, charred ruins, desecrated churches; disproportionately excessive carnage and destruction, even for a conquering emperor familiar with the savagery of war.
As the Sultan rode through the streets of the former capital of the Christian Roman Empire, the city of Constantine, he was moved to tears, murmuring: “What a magnificent city has been forsaken to death, plunder and ruin.”
Once Zara and Zoltan were brought within the city walls, events were transpiring that outweighed the significance of two small, unobtrusive children, and soon they were able to disappear into the mass of chaos. Clinging together, absorbing the terrible sights of the once beautiful city, they happened out of an alley and directly into the path of a mounted procession of royal bearing escorted by dozens of the same heavily-armed soldiers that had taken Guillame prisoner. Caught in the open, with the mounted soldiers bearing down on them, Zoltan dropped to the ground and froze. Zara tried to drag him off but was unable to do so before the horses were upon them. She dropped upon her brother to protect him.
Barely able to stop in time, the lead mounts signaled the procession to a halt. The delay caught the attention of the visibly despondent Sultan, who queried his vizier to investigate. Sighing, he left the carriage and returned shortly. “Great One…just some filthy peasant children without the sense to move out of the way.”
“Let me see them,” the Sultan responded, seeking a distraction from all the tragedy he had witnessed this day. The vizier signaled for the men-at-arms to bring the children forth, and soon Zara and Zoltan stood before their emperor, though they had no idea what an emperor was. The Sultan looked down from his carriage. “Children, where are your parents?”
“They are dead,” Zara answered in her outland dialect.
“I see. You speak my language…though with an unusual accent. Did you learn it here?” The Sultan clearly was pleased that the first of his subjects he conversed with spoke his native tongue.
“We don’t live in this city…we were brought here…today…by a warrior who saved our lives.”
“A warrior?”
“Yes…a mighty warrior. His name is Geel-im. Soldiers like them took him away.” Zara gestured to the royal bodyguard surrounding the carriage.
Intrigued, the Sultan nodded. “I shall inquire about your warrior. What are your names?”
“I am Zara and this is my brother Zoltan.”
“Zara…Zoltan? Those are not Christian names.”
The children remained huddled together, not comprehending the Sultan’s words. The vizier was not entertained with the delay. “We still have much to tour, Great One.”
“Yes…Yes,” the Sultan nodded, clearly annoyed with the vizier’s interruption. An ominous, regal glare caused the vizier to forget his arrogance, avert his eyes and humble himself. The emperor turned back to Zara and Zoltan.
“Children…where are you spending this night?”
Zara shook her head. “We have no where to stay…nothing…but one another.”
“It is settled then! My vizier shall arrange for your safekeeping while I find your protector.” The Sultan turned to his vizier. “See to these children…that they are given a good meal…have them cleaned, find them quarters near mine…then locate this warrior they speak of and bring him to me.”
Guillame remained still in his cell. The rattle of his chains when he stirred sounded startlingly loud in the black stillness, and though he knew he was alone, he did not wish to betray his position.
He was in deep pain. Not of the physical variety, but the anguish of failure burning deeply within his chest. He had failed Zara and Zoltan. He had failed his mission. Constantinople had fallen to infidels. He was unlikely to emerge from this predicament alive and hence improbable he would ever again see his wife and son. And God only knew what was in store when his captors came for him.
He prayed for the strength to meet his fate in a brave manner befitting a Christian knight.
Time did not seem to move for Guillame in the utter darkness, for there was nothing to denote the passage of the hours, his senses deprived in the void of light and sound. Hours, perhaps less had elapsed when he heard the clang of an outer door opening, followed by the approach of footsteps. When the torchlight grew visible through the grille, it was a welcome sight, though only for a moment, until his captors entered his cell.
He was brought to a large, windowless chamber with bare stone walls, illuminated by torchlight. In the center of the room a grim timber block stood, darkly stained, showing many deep nicks as if a sharp edge had been sunk into the wood repeatedly over a long period of time. Beside it stood a man nearly as large and powerfully built as Guillame, holding a huge, curved scimitar over one of his crossed arms. Three harsh-looking men sat behind a large, adjacent table. One of the six guards surrounding Guillame shoved him before the tribunal.
The man seated at the center of the table addressed him. “Infidel…renounce your false God…embrace Allah…perhaps you shall die quickly,” he spoke with heavy accent. “Renounce not, and the death that you long for shall seem an eternity away.”
Guillame’s eyes blazed like orbs of blue fire. His prayer had been answered: Fury within his heart had displaced his fear. He’d show these barbarians how a knight faced death. “I shall never forsake my Lord and Savior…not now…not ever!”
The man at the table shook his head, gesturing towards the block. As the guards started pulling Guillame, he resisted, throwing his chains around two of their necks, then flailing his huge arms so that the six of them soon were entangled. If he was going to die, he thought, he’d die fighting like a man, not cringing like a coward.
No sooner had the melee escalated than the outer chamber door clanged open, and several of the Sultan’s personal guard entered, men wearing burnished cuirasses and crested helmets of polished bronze, followed by the vizier and his flowing robe of red. “What…in the name of Allah…is this madness?” the vizier shouted.
The three men stood and emerged from behind the table and kneeled before the royal emissary. “The execution of an infidel prisoner…a spy…your Grandeur.”
“The Sultan has suspended all executions! Hold that man still!” the vizier ordered the guards, who immediately ceased trying to overpower and drag the knight towards the chopping block, instead concentrated solely on restraining him.
Guillame couldn’t help but notice the change of attitude that the new entrants had wrought, as well as the arrogant, royal bearing and dress of the vizier. The knight stopped struggling, though now his chest heaved with exertion. The vizier warily approached him but remained well out of harms reach. “Were you the guardian escort to the children named Zara and Zoltan?” he queried in a dialect Guillame understood.
“Where are they? Are they all right?” Guillame demanded.
“The Sultan has taken an interest in them…you shall accompany me,” the vizier looked Guillame over head to foot in a distasteful manner, crinkling his nose. “First, however, you must cleanse yourself.”
An hour later, the royal guard escorted a cleansed, well fed Guillame, wearing fresh garments to an inner palace that likely belonged to the vanquished emperor. Velvet tapestries adorned palatial walls; strategically placed, magnificent statues and paintings completed the kingly décor.
As Guillame was preoccupied by one sculpture in particular, the patter of bare, little feet upon marbled floor sounded behind him. Turning, he saw Zara and Zoltan gleefully running toward him. “Geel-im! Geel-im!” they cried out. He kneeled, and as they reached him he embraced one in each arm.
“I have heard much of a mighty warrior,” a man called from behind the reunited trio. Guillame turned to see the face behind the voice emerge from an adjoining chamber, a man indisputably of royal bearing, followed by the haughty vizier. Dignified, impeccably dressed in the finest robe of blue silk with white ermine trim, the Sultan spoke Guillame’s tongue fluently with little accent. A dozen burnished guardsmen escorted him along with several attendants. “I have heard the tale of a village attacked, and of two young children who witnessed their parents and everyone they had ever known slaughtered by man-eating monsters. I have heard how these children were starving, had nearly given up hope, yet still prayed for salvation.”
“There is much power in prayer,” Guillame responded.
The Sultan shook his head, gesturing in a manner to suggest meaning beyond the adjacent walls. “This city has been filled with prayers…most went unanswered.”
Glancing down to the children pressed against him, Guillame put a big hand gently upon each of their heads. “Certainly… God heard the prayers of these two.”
“A point well made,” the Sultan hesitated, eyeing Guillame as he would any enigmatic figure. “Then it would seem…that Allah brought you…a Christian knight…to this part of the world in order to save two children of Moslem heritage.”
“I did what any righteous man would do.” Guillame replied.
“It is highly doubtful.” The Sultan gestured to one of his attendants, who slowly withdrew a white sheet from the top of a small table nestled nearby. “Highly doubtful…that simple righteousness would provide ‘any’ man entitlement…to single-handedly vanquish a horde of fanged devils!” With that, the sheet was completely withdrawn from the table, revealing a gnarled, withered black paw, abhorrently humanlike but larger with protruding yellow talons. The severed appendage of a Stra-ga!
“Where did you get that?” Guillame was shocked to see the ghoulish remnant.
The Sultan smiled toward Zoltan. “It would seem young Zoltan collected a souvenir before leaving his village. Wrapped like a mummy, within a small sack he has carried it since.”
Guillame glanced at the impish face smiling up at him. No wonder the boy had been evasive when Guillame had questioned him about the contents of the sack.
There was an extended moment of silence before the Sultan spoke again. “It is time for a serious decision to be made.”
“A serious decision?”
Eyes twinkling, the Sultan nodded in his regal way. “The children have been offered to remain here as royal wards. They’d want for nothing…ever. Yet, that is not their wish.”
Guillame listened intently as the Sultan paused, then continued. “The children wish to remain with you.”
Guillame was taken aback. All he could offer them was a small homestead. A life of hardship was not out of the question. Yet, should the children remain wards of the Sultan, the knowledge and riches of an empire would be theirs for the asking.
Guillame kneeled again, looking the children in their eyes. He knew they’d understand his voice if not his words. “You…should remain here…where your future is guaranteed for success…for all I could offer you is an insignificant slice of the world. The journey alone to my homeland would be treacherous…fraught with danger…”
It mattered not what Guillame said. The children’s eyes said it all. Their hearts were at peace with Guillame, for as he had selflessly risked his own life to give them back theirs he had become their savior, and they loved him as they would love a father.
There was no surprise within Guillame’s heart that he found himself returning their love. Besides all that they’d been through together, the children had more than reciprocated, saving the knight’s life in his time of need when salvation was what he needed most in the world.
Five days later, in the northernmost range of Sultan Mohammed Mehmet the Second’s empire, five horses, three mounted followed by two tethered pack horses laden with supplies, crossed a shallow point of the Danube from the south, leaving behind a large escort contingent of heavily-armored soldiers.
By far, the largest mount to cross was a steed, a war mount upon which sat a powerfully built man, deep of chest with a square-cut black mane and smoldering, blue eyes, wearing chain mail with a great sword resting at his side. A formidable warrior was he; yet he closely watched his two small companions, a girl and a boy, maneuver their palfreys. He gestured, offering encouragement whenever the need arose.
The river crossing completed, the three looked up and saw a vast expanse of bare slopes sweeping up and away before them. Before long the horses broke into a trot, soon to disappear within swirling mists cascading down from the cloud-enshrouded heights.