Floydyssey, Part 1 Maybe

            Floyd was the first to see the riders.

            This wasn’t terribly surprising.  Floyd was barely a grown man—he’d just seen his seventeenth winter—but his wry, skinny frame towered at least a head above the rest of the villagers.  The wheat in the Westerlands grew tall in the spring, so tall that only Floyd’s thin face and brown bowl-cut peeked above the top of the amber stalks.  He was the only one who saw the knights, at least two score, galloping towards the village on massive black warhorses.  Their armor and spear tips shone bright in the sunlight.  They were headed just south of the fields, towards the village.

            Floyd didn’t say anything.  For starters, few of the villagers particularly cared for Floyd.  None, in fact: his parents, the only ones with sufficient tolerance for his curiosity and strange ideas, had died of the dysentery during the harsh winter.  It was unlikely his warnings would be taken seriously.

            Secondly, experience and the tales of traders told Floyd knights meant one of two things: either the riders were there to tell the villagers something, or they were there to brutally murder them and burn all of their things.  There wasn’t much one could do about the former except do whatever the knights said, and Floyd didn’t have much confidence in his village’s ability to defend itself.  Most of its fifty or so inhabitants were farmers, armed with little more than blistered hands and dull hoes.  Floyd would rather be stabbed from behind in an ambush than die in a futile struggle.

            So Floyd returned to his work, tending to the wheat.  He didn’t get much done before another villager noticed the visitors.

            “Knights!” Pate shouted, scrambling through the fields towards the village proper.  “Everyone, back to the village! Be ready to fight!”

            Floyd groaned.  Pate always wanted to fight, ever since he’d knocked down that drunk bloke who claimed to be a squire a few moons back.  The fight had been too close to be impressive; Pate was also heavily intoxicated at the time, and his stubby arms and heavy gut were not well suited to fighting.  If he actually got his wish, Floyd didn’t think he’d last too long.  But he trotted after him with the other villagers all the same.

            The riders were waiting for the farmers in the center of the village.  None of the seven straw-thatch houses were on fire, which was a good sign, but at the same time none of the knights had dismounted.  Only one had removed his helmet, revealing a stern, hawkish face with a long nose and icy blue eyes.  He glared as all of the farmers nervously assembled before them, some breaking off to check their houses for the women and children.  Floyd stood where he was, hands in the pockets of his rough, cloth pants. 

This continued for a few more minutes until the hawkish knight took a deep breath.  “That’s quite enough!” he barked, smirking as all of the villagers reflexively flinched.  “I want every man capable of holding a sword and board in front of me right now!”

The last few stragglers sheepishly slouched back into the group, about three-and-twenty men ranging from the older children to the sprier geezers.

“I am here on behalf of your beloved, lawful ruler, Lord Spendorf,” the knight began.  “His enemies, the filth that rules the Eastern plains, have brought war upon his house.  Will any of you lot tolerate this assault on his honor?”

“No!” the peasants shouted.  Floyd was almost certain that none of them had ever heard of Lord Spendorf before the riders rode into town.

“As expected,” the knight said.  “You are good men, all of you.  You will all have your chance to serve Lord Spendorf for honor and glory, as you are now marching as part of his army to kill the scum tending his fields and smash Cliffsmoth Keep!” The crowd mustered another cheer, but people’s faces didn’t match the excitement of their voices.  “My friends and I,” the knight nodded at the other riders, “will escort you to the main camp, just south of here, where you will be armed and trained.  We march as soon as possible.”

Floyd could already feel the glares of the other villagers as he raised his hand.  If he could glare at himself, he would—he knew no good could come of this—but he couldn’t help himself.  He didn’t like not understanding, being kept in the dark.  “Pardon me, sirs,” he began.

The other knights exchanged glances, and readied their weapons.  “No, stop,” the hawkish knight said, lifting a hand.  “I am feeling charitable today.  Peasant, you may ask your questions, but I will cut you down if you do not show the proper respect.  I am Sir Jayce Strogsen.”

“I’m Floyd,” Floyd said.  “Thank you, Sir Strogsen.”

“Kneel,” the knight growled.  Floyd immediately complied.

“Sir,” Floyd said, staring intensely at the hooves of Sir Strogsen’s horse, “I humbly ask what the lords of the Eastern plains have done to bring Lord Spendorf’s wrath.”

“Well,” Sir Strogsen said, “you will doubtless be outraged to learn that Lord Wil Deagon slighted Lord Spendorf at court.”

There was a brief moment of silence until the villagers realized that this was apparently a grievous crime, and tried their best to gasp in shock and horror.  Floyd bent his head further, hoping the knight couldn’t see his frown.  “Is that all, Sir?”

“Speak again, peasant?”

“We are sent to kill and die because our good lord’s feelings were injured in court?”

“Is that not a worthy cause?” the knight sneered.  “If you care not to die for it, I can kill you now.”

“No, no! This is very, er, outrageous,” Floyd stammered.  “But I remember my grandpa telling me of when his father was called to war, to fight off a swarm of Orcs that threatened to sweep the land into darkness.  My grandfather was called into war to kill the gang of brigands that tried to take over the kingdom.  But then my father left this winter when the inbred king—“

Suddenly Floyd was on his back, dizzy and groaning.  One of the knights had dismounted and kicked him in the face with an armored boot.  “King Denny Bulfkompf is not inbred!” he shouted, drawing his sword.  “His lantern jaw is a gift from the gods!”

Floyd managed to sit up, and from there, managed to get back down into a kneel.  Endurance and toughness had been very necessary for him to keep asking questions.  “I beg pardon, sir,” he said, “I misspoke.  I am thankful my father gave his life for our web-toed sovereign.”  The knight looked at Sir Strogsen, who waved his hand, and sheathed his sword, growling.  “What I am asking is, compared to our past struggles, is this truly what we should fight a war over?”

“I don’t think you understand how serious this is,” Sir Strogsen said.  “Deagon has been late for tea with Lord Spendorf at least three times this week, despite ample reminders of the time and date of his appointment.  He is very sure that this is deliberate rudeness.  Are you not outraged? Do you not wish to take up arms for your lord?”

No, Floyd yearned to say, Why must we fight wars? If we must fight, can they not at least be our fights, against threats to us? Why must we fight and die for the arguments of bitter old men?  But his forehead still hurt.  Blood dropped in front of his eyes.  And he could see the knight who kicked him gently stroking the hilt of his sword.  “Yes,” he said, “give me a sword and point me at the enemy.”

“Good man!” Sir Strogsen laughed.  “Up now, lad.  Let’s go, you lot, off to the camp.  Loyal patriots, one and all.” The group slowly lurched forward, following the knights out of town.  Behind him, Floyd heard a soft tunk-tunk sound, and his blood ran cold.  Old Man Finn made that sound when he ran too fast on his wooden leg.  His son was one of the boys marching with the knights.  He took a breath, hoping to speak up, but the knight that had kicked him noticed the old man running after them first.  He wheeled around on his horse, and drew his sword.  When he rode back, he had to use a stained, red-brown cloth to wipe his sword down before sheathing it.  Floyd couldn't hear anyone following them anymore.