The Last Paladin
There is a field
After fifteen years, the scorched ground has given up the feigned notion of infertility and become soft again, seeded by the few patches of rugged wild grasses and the scant remains of torched fields. In and among the last of the summer’s gold, head heavy with feral wheat, poppies spring like the drops of scarlet blood that stained this earth. A single tree has clawed its way out of the silk-soft corn that ripples like water in the wind; at the top of the rise a gnarled black crab apple waves its bristly hunter’s green fingers in the gentle breeze. Sometimes, a child will unhook the dappled pony from the plough and ride, bareback, to collect the sour fruit.
There is a horse
It is the last of its breed, the breed that rode fearlessly into battle and died with equal tenacity, a breed that died out when the last of its kind were put in traces, their riders’ bones bleaching under the cruel sun. The colour of a new minted coin, a long mane and tail, as white as the cleaner parts of the linen that covers the jingle of chain barding, float on the breeze as it moves with a clear and easy gait over the ridge, emphasising the heraldic curve of the muscled neck, the smooth action of the finely boned hocks. The mare, for it is a mare, carries herself and her charge with an effortless elegance that is hard to find in those that are not perfect both in conformation and training. It is difficult to believe that this beauty of horseflesh could ever be seen in a battle charge, foaming at the bit, or in the midst of a battle, coated in dust and blood. But this is her destiny, for emblazoned on the cloth that falls over her mailed flanks, on the metal head plate, and on the hanging draperies of the reins, is the symbol of the blood red fleur-de-lis.
There is a rider
She wears full plate, chainmail showing through the few gaps in the heavy armour, but is not expecting a battle, so her winged helmet is strapped to the saddle beside the red bedroll, glistening silver-white in the sun. She is not pretty, but her face has a kind of forceful handsomeness that is usually considered inelegant on women. It is a youthful face, but there are a few lines at the corner of each almond shaped, slightly slanted, emerald green eye, though whether they are caused by laughter or pain is unclear. Her hair is as fair as the corn that whisks around her booted heels, cropped short like a boys around her slightly pointed ears, but soft as silk and ruffling slightly in the breeze. A cloak streams from her shoulders, white but, like all the linen, stained tawny at the hem by the dust of the road, and emblazoned, as is her gloves, helmet, chest plate, belt buckle and the solitary ring that hands on a chain around her neck, with the crimson fleur-de-lis.
There is a sword
The scabbard is old, very old, black hide worn by many generations of users and tipped at each end with silver steel. Hung on a belt of much newer leather, it seems ancient, faded, but the sword remains sharp. It is not fancy, a plain crosspiece, a hilt wrapped in black leather, the blade, could it be seen, would be equally plain, yet all the more deadly for it. The sole point of recognition, for those who would know it’s name, and subsequently, it’s history, is the pommel design. For capping the hilt of Crimsona Rafiq, the most well known sword in all of history before history was swept away on a tide of war, is a carved bloodstone in the form of the fabled fleur-de-lis.
There is the village
They do not know her at first, and the closer she comes, more come to realise she may indeed be a threat. But some of them, the older ones, see the fleur-de-lis, the symbol of honour and chivalry, and call for their friends to lower their weapons. Although she struggles with the local dialect, for it is not familiar to her, they are welcoming, the barkeep-come-mayor officially stating that she may stay as long as she wishes for no charge, for her coming is unprecedented, yet infinitely welcome for all that. She thanks them, but insists that she cannot stay for too long. A quest, and adventure, and the good of whatever goodly folk she encounters, awaits her. Only one person, the youngest son of one of the farmers, a boy with a bow slung across his shoulders, does not move forward to greet her. He watches with a cautious intent, for she promises the thrills of adventure and the glories of success, which is what he has thirsted for, for a dozen years or more.
Her name is Aleathea Elf-Friend. She is the last of the
Paladins.