Errant
by Greg Michaelson
Genre: Fantasy/Sci-Fi
Swearwords: None.
Description: Heroism's really tough; Good intentions aren't enough.
_____________________________________________________________________
“Help!” shouted the maiden, as the dark knight rode into the glade.
“Help!” she shouted again, as the dark knight spurred his horse towards her, drew his broad axe and swung it over his head.
“Help!” shouted the dark knight, as his horse stumbled and came to a sudden halt.
Left foot stirrup stuck, the dark knight tumbled out of the saddle and landed heavily at the maiden’s feet. Snatching up the fallen axe, the maiden lopped off his head.
As she wiped the bloody blade on the sward, the young champion charged into the clearing and leapt off his horse.
“Have no fear!” called the young champion, sweeping round in a wide arc, hefting his burnished sword. “Help is at hand!”
“Oh,” said the young champion, spotting the felled dark knight. He lowered his weapon and turned to the maiden.
“Am I too late?” said the young champion. “What happened?”
“Of course you’re too late,” said the maiden, tossing the axe down beside the body. “I had to deal with him myself.”
“Couldn’t you have waited?” said the young champion.
“No,” said the maiden. “I couldn’t. What kept you?”
“I was praying for honour,” said the young champion. “At the holy shrine in the ruined chapel. I told you.”
“You said you wouldn’t be long,” said the maiden.
“But I’ve not been long!” said the young champion.
“You bloody fool!” said the maiden. “It was early morning when we first met. What time do you think it is now?”
The young champion stared at the ground.
“The shadows are short,” he said finally. “I suppose it must be noon.”
“Exactly!” said the maiden. “I told you you’d lose track of time in the chapel. Everyone does.”
“Everyone?” said the young champion. “Have there been others?”
“You really are a fool,” said the maiden. “Anyway, that’s it. You better go and find another quest.”
“Not another one!” said the young knight. “Can’t I have a fresh go at this one? Please?”
The maiden said nothing, and looked pointedly at the corpse.
“I suppose not,” said the young champion. “Aye well.”
“These things happen,” said the maiden. “Away you go.”
The young champion sheathed his sword, mounted his horse and rode off into the trees.
The maiden bent across the dark knight and made a three finger pass over his body.
“Awaken,” she said.
“Thank goodness!” said the dark knight, hauling himself up, replacing his head and dusting down his armour.
Then he reached into his saddle bag and took out a slate.
“What do you think?” he said. “We really can’t pass him.”
“No,” said the maiden. “A ‘D’? It’s a shame. He was rather sweet.”
“A bit dim though,” said the dark knight, taking notes with a stub of chalk. “All right. ‘D+’ then. Come on. We’d better feed the horse.”
Swearwords: None.
Description: Heroism's really tough; Good intentions aren't enough.
_____________________________________________________________________
“Help!” shouted the maiden, as the dark knight rode into the glade.
“Help!” she shouted again, as the dark knight spurred his horse towards her, drew his broad axe and swung it over his head.
“Help!” shouted the dark knight, as his horse stumbled and came to a sudden halt.
Left foot stirrup stuck, the dark knight tumbled out of the saddle and landed heavily at the maiden’s feet. Snatching up the fallen axe, the maiden lopped off his head.
As she wiped the bloody blade on the sward, the young champion charged into the clearing and leapt off his horse.
“Have no fear!” called the young champion, sweeping round in a wide arc, hefting his burnished sword. “Help is at hand!”
“Oh,” said the young champion, spotting the felled dark knight. He lowered his weapon and turned to the maiden.
“Am I too late?” said the young champion. “What happened?”
“Of course you’re too late,” said the maiden, tossing the axe down beside the body. “I had to deal with him myself.”
“Couldn’t you have waited?” said the young champion.
“No,” said the maiden. “I couldn’t. What kept you?”
“I was praying for honour,” said the young champion. “At the holy shrine in the ruined chapel. I told you.”
“You said you wouldn’t be long,” said the maiden.
“But I’ve not been long!” said the young champion.
“You bloody fool!” said the maiden. “It was early morning when we first met. What time do you think it is now?”
The young champion stared at the ground.
“The shadows are short,” he said finally. “I suppose it must be noon.”
“Exactly!” said the maiden. “I told you you’d lose track of time in the chapel. Everyone does.”
“Everyone?” said the young champion. “Have there been others?”
“You really are a fool,” said the maiden. “Anyway, that’s it. You better go and find another quest.”
“Not another one!” said the young knight. “Can’t I have a fresh go at this one? Please?”
The maiden said nothing, and looked pointedly at the corpse.
“I suppose not,” said the young champion. “Aye well.”
“These things happen,” said the maiden. “Away you go.”
The young champion sheathed his sword, mounted his horse and rode off into the trees.
The maiden bent across the dark knight and made a three finger pass over his body.
“Awaken,” she said.
“Thank goodness!” said the dark knight, hauling himself up, replacing his head and dusting down his armour.
Then he reached into his saddle bag and took out a slate.
“What do you think?” he said. “We really can’t pass him.”
“No,” said the maiden. “A ‘D’? It’s a shame. He was rather sweet.”
“A bit dim though,” said the dark knight, taking notes with a stub of chalk. “All right. ‘D+’ then. Come on. We’d better feed the horse.”
About the Author
Greg Michaelson has been publishing short stories since
2001. His first novel The Wave Singer
(Argyll, 2008) was shortlisted for a Scottish Arts Council/Scottish Mortgage
Trust First Book Award. His second novel Singing About The Dark Times was self-published in 2014. Greg, who lives
and works in Edinburgh, likes to write about how things aren't and how they
might be.