Radulf let out a cry of triumph – which was stifled, when his adversary jumped to his feet again with apparent ease.

“A good throw, Sir,” he said, bowing to Radulf and drawing his sword. “Now, if you were so good as to join me on the ground…?”

He drew his sword in one swift, sweeping movement.

Radulf, who had evidently expected the whole affair to be over by now, was somewhat slow to respond. After a few prolonged seconds though, he jumped down from his horse, grinding his teeth angrily and ripping his own sword from its sheath.

The two contestants began to circle one another, silent and alert. It was the scrap metal knight who spoke first.

“Are you not feeling even a morsel of guilt, blackguard? You come to fight for your life in the armor you bought with the money given to you by the man you killed. Do you know what circle of hell awaits you?”

Harun jumped and stared at the knight in incomprehension. How could this man, only just arrived in the village, know all this?

“What is this?” exclaimed Sir Christian. “Lukas giving Radulf… Sir knight, Lukas was a penniless bondsman.”

“…who had been swindling you, under the auspices of your worthy steward. And when he thought better of it, Radulf decided to make the world a safer place – for himself, at least. Did you not know that?”

“Liar!” hissed Radulf.

“Ah, yes, I have been, indeed, on one or two occasions. Not on this one though, I assure you.”

Radulf raised his blade. “God will show which one of us speaks the truth today!”

The incoming blow was easily deflected, sending Radulf staggering backwards.

“He will indeed.” The scrap metal knight took a step forward. Now, quick blow followed blow. Radulf barely had time to defend himself, let alone place attacks of his own. It was on the chest that the first blow hit him. It did not cut through his chain mail, but threw him back again, gasping for breath.

The scrap metal knight just stood there, waiting until his opponent had found his footing again.

“What is he doing?” Harun hissed in anguish. “Why does he not finish him off?!”

“Perhaps it's more chivalrous this way,” Wenzel suggested.

“Chivalrous be cursed! This is a serious matter!”

“It is so for Radulf,” Wenzel whispered. “Look!”

The steward had tried attacking his passive opponent. Yet with little Success: His onslaught was deflected with as much skill as the previous one, and the counterattack was not a long time in coming. Again, it hit Radulf on the chest.

“There your blade pierced your victim, did it not?” The knight inquired. “But he had no chain mail to protect himself. You are unusually loved by God, Radulf.”

“W- what?” The steward stammered.

“Oh yes. You are a murderer, and yet you have a chain mail. You will live a few seconds longer.”

The next blow hit Radulf on the arm. One heard the high cry of metal on metal, and blood splattered the ground, as the sword penetrated the armor protecting Radul'fs arm.

“Use them well.”

The next strike pierced his shoulder. A cry of pain shot up to the heavens, but was cut short, abruptly and finally. Radulf stumbled, clutching his throat, on which a fine red line could be detected.

He fell.

A dull thump on the ground – then there was silence, as in a tomb.

*~*~*~*~*

Harun felt his stomach tighten, as he looked at the motionless heap of metal on the meadow, glimmering in the bright light of the torches. So that was it. It was over.

As though through a thick veil, severing him from the rest of humanity, he heard Sir Christian’s voice.

“The villain is slain, the righteous lives. God has shown himself to us in his mercy. Sir knight, this was truly well fought.”

The scrap metal knight bowed to the lord of Sevenport. “Thank you, Sir Christian.”

“You have helped the helpless in their hour of dire need,” continued Sir Christin gravely. “and revealed God’s truth to us on this day. Even were I not indebted to you as I am, such a man as you are, I would be glad to count among my friends. May I know your name?”

“No.”

The veil was lifted abruptly, and Harun saw the knight, standing there in his bloody, rusted armor, resolutely facing the lord of Sevenport.

“I beg your pardon, Sir knight?”

“I am glad to accept your friendship, Sir Christian. But I cannot and will not reveal my name to you.”

He turned and left Sir Christian standing where he was, staring after him. He mounted his horse and rode along the silently watching crowd. Besides some peasant from the west of the village, he stopped.

“This horse is yours I believe, my friend. You may not have recognized it in the dark. I took it from your copse on my way here, to be able to face Radulf.”

“Aye, I noticed all right, Sir.”

“But you did not say anything.”

“As long as someone’d come to nock the stuffing out of the bastard, I didn’t care if he arrived on my price bull. Wasn’t much use to you anyway, poor old Ohm, was he?”

The knight still wore his helmet, but one could hear his smile in his voice. “Not as such. But thank you, nevertheless. I shall put it where I found it, if that is all right with you.”

“Aye, Sir.”

The knight rode to the edge of the forest, and stopped there once more. He looked back to the crowd. Still, nobody had spoken or moved a muscle.

“If ever you have need of me, I shall be here again. You know where to find me,” he said. Then he vanished into the darkness of the forest, and left Harun standing among the excitedly chatting villagers, Pondering grammatical questions. He was wondering whether the knight had meant the ‘you’ to be plural or a very specific singular.

*~*~*~*~*

A bird was sweeping high over the dry landscape. It was autumn, but here it might just as well have been high summer, for all the difference it made. Here, in Sicily.

The bird came closer. Was it an eagle? No. On closer inspection it turned out to be a falcon.

It plunged! In a flash it was down to the ground. Without forewarning, its talons clasped on a small furry creature.

The falcon rose again, beating its wings against the wind. It drew nearer to a strange, octagonal stone building which stood upon a small hilltop nearby. It descended to a window, and there landed gently upon a waiting arm.

“What have you got there? Have you brought me a gift back? Clever boy, clever boy. Yes, there is good hunting to be had out in the world if one has sharp eyes and claws, is there not?”

A door opened somewhere, and an armed Arab came in, bowing reverentially.

“As-salaamu ‘Aleeikum, Sahib. I am sent by…”

“…Grand Master von Salza in order to esquire whether I am disposed to give a favorable response to his request,” the man at the window concluded. He turned, and one could now see his long, reddish locks of hair, as well as the crown that rested upon them.

“The Problem is, Mohammed, I really can not see how I should be able to do so. Granted, Lord von Salza’s is not too greedy a request. He does not say: ‘Give me some land and people I can rule.’ He only says: ‘Point me to a heathen land and people which I can invade, conquer, massacre, forcibly baptize and do with whatever else should come into my mind at the time.’ You could hardly say no to a man as modest as that. But where, in the vicinity, are there any heathen lands left to conquer? Your people, Mohammed, have good sense. They live more then 5000 miles off, so that a crusade is a devil of a nuisance.”

Mohammed responded with expressive silence.

The man stepped away from the window and went towards a wall, where a large map of Europe was on display.

“It is a shame that this continent is so annoyingly Christian. Where, for the God fearing crusader and greedy warrior is there anything left to accomplish? I wonder… yes.. I wonder.”

The man turned to Mohammed again.

“Does Lord von Salz require a certain type of heathen to be slaughtered, conquered and christified? Does he wish for Arabs, Egyptians, Syrians or what is his preferred taste?

“He gave me to understand, Sahib, that all he desired was a new field of action for himself and his order.”

“Then that is what he shall have! Bring be parchment, quill and wax, Mohammed. I have a country to give away which does not belong to me. A pleasant enough way to spend the morning, would you not say so?”

Mohammed bowed, knowing all too well that no answer was required. When the Arab Guard had left, the man with the red hair turned to his falcon again.

“Yes,” he whispered, with a smile twitching on his lips. “I was right. There is indeed good hunting to be had out in the world. Let us see if Salza’s claws are sharp enough for Prussia.”

THE END

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So, that's the end of Well Dead. Any Idea who the Black Knight is? Are you very angry with me that I did't reveal his identity? I thought it was fitting considering this story is a mystery ;-)

The little bit I added at the end I added to have an open end, and make a sequel possible some day. A chapter dedication to anyone who can guess who the man with the hawk is!! :) :)

Ever your faithful scribe, recording historical ballads

Robert

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FURTHER WORKS BY ROBERT THIER:

- The Robber Knight (A historical Adventure / Romance)

- The Saxon's Seven Shirts (A humerous short story, based on a true historical event)

- WANTED: Love of my Life (A Romance)

All to be found on my profile page. Enjoy :-)