Free Blood and Dreams: Lost Years II by Richard Monaco

far north in a long time. Stared across the blindingly sunny fields, thinking about cheese. A rider was coming fast down a long, gentle slope. Dust and heat shimmer made a ghostly shadow out of him. But the glints showed armor. I was pleased he wasn’t coming my way. It could only be trouble. I’d read about times and places where peace lasted for decades. I wished I’d lived in one.
    “Keep going, knight,” I muttered and nudged my strong but slightly break-gaited charger along. If I happened on a monastery along the way, I thought I’d just trade my famous red steel for some neutral rags and tiptoe home in disguise.
    I passed under a long row of thin trees. The bands of dusty shadow flicked over me. I set my helmet over the front of my saddlehorn. Wiped sweat from my eyes. Wished I had an oriental cloth headgear. I’d seen them in the Holy Land.
    Peering back to be sure the horseman hadn’t changed course, I never saw the others until I was halfway around a tight curve that crossed a little hillcrest and a short wooden bridge over a crease of stream. The country was very dry. You felt the dryness in the heat.
    The others were in close chase. They straggled down the valley sides, riding gouts of dust as if aflame, crashing through long stands of grain. If nothing else, that proved they were noblemen.
    If anything was ever none of my business, this was. So I refused to look back again … for all of a minute. I sighed. Winced at myself. Kept thinking no , even as I hauled the big, dense horse around in a yellowish spume of dust and reluctantly clumped back towards the action.
    It was my nature, I reflected. At least there wasn’t a woman in it yet.
    “Get moving,” I said, “you fat-assed beast.”
    The first horseman was veering my way to strike the road just below the cross — what cross? The gibbet with the body? The others had spread out in a rough crescent to close him in if he tried to break left or right. Experts. Nothing like excellence in ripping and killing.
    The lone rider saw me now. I assumed he’d assume I was the last nail in his coffin lid. I waved to him. He came on, crossing the road and heading into the cornfield on the other side. I closed. Cut into the forest of tall stalks. Ripening ears clunked into my shield, horse, and armor. I was just high enough to see his helmet seeming to float bounce along the tops of the crisp, bright green stalks.
    “Halloo!” I called. That ought to have seemed friendly. No effect. The head bounced on in front of me. I charged on. My mount was no purse-winner in a run. On through the corn: clunk, bang, clink, swish … I heard the others behind me now. They’d hit the field still spread out. Here I was in the middle again. I had vague ideas about getting them all to parlay, to reason together. Vague stuff. I was anxious to know what the quarrel was about so I could go on with a clear conscience. Another vague idea.
    The fact was, I could never turn my back. That’s why I had to retire. Sooner or later, someone would always draw me into some insane Grail-hunting scheme or equal nonsense.
    The rider on the left was faster than the others. He was gradually cutting ahead. I could see his red plume flapping above the flashing, sun-shattering green. He was forcing the man ahead to veer across my path. I ran straight and cut across his arc.
    So we were soon side by side. His visor was closed. He creaked his head around to study me. I was impressed that he hadn’t yet drawn. A cool fellow. Nondescript armor. No markings.
    “Why do they seek your life?” I asked. As if it really mattered.
    His reply was hollow, muffled by the metal that sealed his head. Your own mother wouldn’t know your voice in one of those pots.
    “What?” I yelled back.
    “Go suck shit, Parsival!” was the answer.
    I had been about to suggest we dismount and use the cover to chew them up one at a time. Or avoid battle altogether, if possible.
    On the other hand, he might have just raped