The Dancing Shadows

The morning fog loomed out into the distance, it was almost tangible, shrouding everything in an ashen veil. It crawled amongst the trees, its silent footsteps narrowly walking around the bushed and hedges, erasing the path ahead. It was impossible to see through, for the plain opaqueness of it was enough to hide a tree right in front of you, let alone the road that twisted through the valley. The sun was still behind the silhouetted mountains, for dawn had not fully broken, and therefore there was no light to help see by.

It was upon that morning, that one might have seen a tall stallion cantering nonchalantly down the path and through the mist. Its rider, who was a wiry teenager called Gwildor, scanned the trees either side of the sandy track with a watchful eye. The emaciated trees hung low either side of the track, so that there branches stretched across the path, blocking the way forward. Gwildor brought the horse to a halt as the stallion snorted and scraped a hoof on the ground. He pulled his emerald cloak faster around him; the biting wind stirred the mist aside, allowing Gwildor to see slightly further ahead. There was a clearing in the small copse of pines directly ahead, forming a wall of trees. As Gwildor scrutinised further, his eye caught sight of the shimmer of water. The mist regathered, this time thicker, so that Gwildor could now not see his hand in front of him. He flailed his arms wildly so that the mist could once again clear; allowing him again to see forward. This time, however, he decided to move forward, and he ploughed wearily to the wall of trees. It took him about five minutes to reach them, for he had taken time to gather his bearings, and the brooding mist was thickening. He reached the copse of trees, his horse waiting tensely in the sea of mist. Gwildor treaded lightly on the sandy ground, his fingers slowly curling around the deer antler handle of the knife fastened to his side. The silence thickened; the mist sinking lower to the ground. Gwildor turned sharply as the sound of hooves came from the track. It was not his horse, for the steps were light and his horse treaded heavily due to the saddlebags fastened to his horse’s side. Gwildor whistled quietly; but loud enough for his horse to hear. Soon enough, his horse was in sight. Gwildor mounted it, and trotted to a bush where he was well hidden. The CLIP CLOP of the other horse came to a halt. Gwildor bit his lip excitedly as the horse came into view. It was being ridden by a true rider (for Gwildor had not had many lessons in horse-riding) who was draped in a black cloak that sank to the floor. Gwildor peered through the baleful mist – eyebrows slanted above his blue eyes. The rider dismounted its horse and made way to the glittering patch in the copse of trees. Gwildor silently cursed as the man sank into the mist: he was now hidden from Gwildor. The young teenager got down on all fours and crawled further as to be able to see well. At last – when Gwildor had come to the edge of the Pine trees – he could see the figure slowly pulling down the hood of his cloak, revealing a dishevelled face with ebony hair and a crimson scar with a look of terror on his countenance, and a hostile, almost hungry eye. He knelt down on the soft bed of convoluted reeds and peered into the water. The sun was now visible, and the man suddenly looked up, his yellow eyes flickering with horror. Gwildor crawled back to his horse as the mist cleared. The man at the well snarled as Gwildor trampled through the bush with the loud crack of snapping bracken. There was the sound of a sword being drawn as the figure in black began to move forward like billowing smoke. There was a dense silence like the calm before the storm as Gwildor watched in stupefied astonishment as the man swung a stygian coloured scimitar. Gwildor ducked and ran to the well where he snapped of a metal bar from the leverage and faced the man. He had not been born a natural skill in sword fighting, but he had practiced enough with his brother to know how to defend himself. The man lurched forward and sliced diagonally. There was the rasp of tearing clothing as Gwildor pranced away like a young doe, the man’s sword slicing his clothing. Gwildor came forward and twisted the bar at the man’s rib, but in return the well-trained figure defied the strike and smote Gwildor hark on the nose. Gwildor raised his hand to his broken nose and snorted in pain and vexation. He thrust forward the bar and kicked the man in the fork of his legs, sending the agonised opponent to the floor. Gwildor stumbled, and then scrambled to his feet, making off at all haste to where his horse waited. He mounted, and galloped down the road, his heart in his throat and his providential bar still clutched in his shaking hand…

It was midday when Gwildor arrived home. There was a strange silence in his town, like the eeriness after a funeral. He stared over at a keening woman on a doorstep, her clothes threadbare and her face gaunt with starvation. He cantered on down the main road of the village and came to a group of thick meaty men, who were about the size of cows with oversized hands. He overheard there confabulation and asked, “what happened?” One of the men looked up, his face puce with anger. 

“A stranger entered the village last night with a group of men dressed in armour. Said he was looking for a well nearby. He asked us if we knew where it was and said that if we didn’t tell him, he would kill every peasant in the village in one violent massacre.”

“We din’ know wot ta say cos we aint ‘eard of any nearby wells. He’s killed ‘alf the damn village and then ‘e left us.”

“Who did he take,” said Gwildor gravely.

“We said, ‘alf the village. Oh, and…I’m sorry boy. He took yer father to.” Gwildor felt a thick clammy lump form in his throat and tears welling in his eyes. 

“No, no, no! Wait!” he wept. Suddenly, he remembered the man from the well. His heart skipped a beat and he suddenly yelled, “give me a sword, one of you.” The men all laughed simultaneously.

“A sword. A sword!! Good luck finding of them. The only one in this village is rusted and about to snap.

“Then so be it, There’s still time.” Gwildor knew where the old sword was. It was possessed by an old blacksmith who earnt little wages in his living. Gwildor hastened his horse down the road where the smithy was. He came to it, the stench of sweat and the force of heat wrapping around his skin.  He entered through the narrow doorway, where a robust man was vigorously knocking a horseshoe with a hammer. His clothes were singed and his face was black with coal. He looked up and groaned.

“What do you want grubby lil’ man cub,” he snarled pugnaciously. 

“I need your sword,” he replied.

“You aint touching that fire poker even if the world depended on it.” 

“Listen, the attack last night was simply just a beginning. He’s found the well, and on his way back he will slaughter everyone in the village down to the child born yesterday. I can stop him, and avenge my father.” The man’s face suddenly want pale. The tip of a sword protruded from the blacksmith. Gwildor noticed the back door was open, and behind the blacksmith’s dead body, was a man with dishevelled face, a crimson scar and a hungry eye. The man from the well…

Gwildor hesitated for a moment, his thoughts buzzing inside him. He ducked as the same scimitar was sliced across his cheek. He crumpled to the floor.

“For generations boy, your village had my tribe in chains: we were enslaved by your kind. We could seldom do what we liked, for we were brutally serving your kind. Now I will take my vengeance on your scum!”

“So you’re going to kill me because of my ancestry.”

“I’m going to kill you, and the village. Now die!” The man leaped forward, but Gwildor sidestepped and grabbed the fire poker. Gwildor charged and swung his sword with great balance. His opponent stumbled backwards, tearing his sleeve on an out jutting nail. Gwildor continued to advance yet the man was not the easily deceived. He stalled Gwildor’s strike with the flat of his blade and swung it; the sword humming a dreary tune as it whipped through the air. Ducking just in time, Gwildor retreated back and went back into his stance. With blinding speed, he sped forward, ducked the blow of his opponent and stabbed. The man fell dead.

“That was for my father,” whispered Gwildor with a satisfied and keening air.