May of Roses

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Now, it seemed they were beyond counting. No time for thinking, no time for anything but to wrest a breath from the shards of glass, the sharpness the night air had become.

The horse’s nostrils flared furiously, billowing plumes of whiteness were forced out into the crisply bracing November air. The huge Roan’s coat steamed, slick, covered in blood and sweat. An area of trampled, dented earth that had filled with muddy gore, obscenely reflected bits of the fighting men in its detritus strewn surface. Sharply cracked the ice, which had begun to form at the edge of the red-brown pool, as the iron shod feet of the war horse slammed downward.

The man on the mount could see it as plain as if it had already happened. Time slowed, the cries of men and the ring of steel faded into the background. Thick shoulder length silver and black hair belonging to a man of large stature and meaty build, thundering blue gray eyes, and a clear clean brow, whipped around to cover his left shoulder. Too slow now, too tired. As if in a dream, he knew the sword which was in his right hand would never make it around to engage. His mount, which had just come down from spinning also to the right, would likewise never recover to make a kick to the left. The question that remained was whether the leaf shaped blade of the spear would catch him or his beast first? A fraction of a second gave him his answer. The animal screamed, not unlike, he imagined briefly, something being dragged to hell would sound. The steel spear entered its left shoulder with a sickening impact. In its frenzy to escape the rending pain, the horse fought for a hold in the slimy ground, slipped and went down hard, the Lord of Tir’s Bey under him. The world went away, and the screams mercifully were gone as Kalin lost consciousness.

“To Hell with all of you…” Kalin spat the words as he twisted the ring from off his left thumb.

“… and to Hell with Tir’s Bey” He threw the great ring that was the seal of the Duke of Tir’s Bey away from him.

Somewhere in the cold black, the soft gold chimed against hard stone. Kalin was raging like a fierce West-born storm, the muscles of his arms showing clearly as clenched and unclenched his fists. His mouth was set, jaws pressed so tightly together the teeth should have shattered.

Alaria held her husband’s arm firmly. “Let him be Lorin, your brother must work this out on his own.” She said softly. But caution was in her tone too.

Lorin, brow creased deeply, his body tensed for some action or other which Lorin felt compelled to attempt, grasped for anything which he might do. Yet, he was at a loss as to how to control Kalin. At one-third again his weight and a very long fingered hand-span taller, Kalin would quickly show his younger brother that he was not to be contained, confined, controlled or any other word that began with con, into coming down from the heights of his anger. Alaria was right, Kalin would have to fight this battle alone. Lorin had no idea of what it was like for his brother. The days of drinking and hating. Lorin had no idea of what it was like to be blind. And Kalin, his brother, the Duke of Tir’s Bey was now quite blind.

“One more word from your mouth Lorin and by all the gods, I will find you in this accused dark and strangle you with my bare hands, be you my brother or no.” Kalin raged still. He was dangerously drunk, not yet reeling like a drunkard but to the point that his anger was magnified tenfold. No doubt that his words were genuine...