Knight´s Bridge: The Awakening
Episode One: Dream Weaver
Beyond the dark and deep valleys of Grandurë, over the golden hills of
Rendig, and through the shadows of Narenea Forest, an elegant castle, none
like any other, stands tall and proud within the Knights Bridge. Here lives
the prosperous Kingdom of Gallöran. A city so wondrous and magnificent, its
trumpets are heard from all around the land.
Travelers far and wide drive their carriages and pen wagons miles past its
borders, just to claim that they have seen the Great City. Many merchants
set shop on its structural grounds, becoming wealthy and sly to the teeth.
Treacherous devils could sell you a pin of hay for the very clothes on your
back. Here is where a penny will buy you nothing but glory and fame amongst
the outlanders. Some call the Great City the City of Untold Riches, while
others call it the Wealth of the Land. True the Kingdom of Gallöran is very
prestigious, but nothing in the kingdom can match its knight-bound chivalry.
Wars have been fought, with many in number, only to see the enemy befall to
its end days. Knightly-hood is more prestigious here than the shine of a
golden coin. To find adventure and gain the name of Knight is what draws in
weary travelers. Fathers of fathers and sons of sons, a lineage of heroes
that never ends lies within these walls. A breed said by many outlanders to
be unruly on the battlefield and the very bricks in the wall. No army can
outlast nor defeat a Gallöran Knight. To face such an opponent is a risk
that only a jest could make an ass from.
Jest or no jest, a William could easily stand toe to toe with an enemy
fierce enough to scare you bald. William Pendragon is a scrawny lily loaf,
which could barely lift a branch of a tree. He is a messenger to the Knights
Bridge halftime, and apprentice of the blacksmith on Blackenhouse Lane other
times. Although he is a sapling and lacks a bit of tone, William lives for
adventure and willingly bears even the hardest of quandaries.
“Just a chip off the ol’ block you are Will.” Says a man nearly as old as a
grandfather clock, with slightly a bit more hair than most, not to mention
the overtone he carries upon his arms and chest. This is uncle Vern, a
fire-eyed farmer and blacksmith, caring only for his work and work only. “I
dare say you prettied up them irons like a ton of wood today.” William is
leaning out the window of a patched village home, dreaming like dreamers do,
hoping for a name in the shimmers above the nightly sky. “You must stop
staring at those blasted stars boy. Petty dreams never come true anymore,
even ask my grandfather Wilbur.” Wilbur was a farmer and tanner, dreamer of
working hard to earn your place in the stars. Except his grandson forgot
those dreams after he lost his leg in the Wars of Tripidum. Little is known
about Wilbur except for his dreams.
“I think I’ll become a Gallöran Knight some day sir…” William pauses for a
brief moment to stare at the pearls in the sky one last time, before the
shutters are slammed in his face.
“Now you listen here boy, the only thing you will become is a stable hand,
and even that is far gone, heh,” uncle Vern just pumps his chest out and
spits into a bucket on the other side of the room. Will just turns around
with a disgusted look on his face and heads to a creaky, old, wooden table
to eat his dinner.
“Why don’t you just eat that there grub and head on up stairs? You got
stables to clean in tha’ morning.” Will sits down to eat, watching his uncle
Vern eat chicken bones clean before it reaches his mouth. Just like two pigs
in a trough.
“What ever happened to the old uncle I knew?” Will knew perfectly well how
he lost his uncle. He just wished that it didn’t have to be that way. He
wanted the real uncle Vern back.
“Why you asking me such foolish questions?” Vern looks at Will with his
grizzly face, eyes piercing like stones. Uncle Vern never took a liking to
questioning his past, let alone obvious questions that need no answering.
“You used to be a dreamer, what ever happened to that?” Vern looks at Will
with a death gaze, face reddened in disgust, edged towards relinquishing his
young nephew’s life with a hand noose.
“Keep being a dream weaver kid, and you’ll end up just like Wilbur, dead.”
Such a soft tone, it just pierced Will’s mind like an arrow, breath taken
away slowly. Will knew there was a storm breaking loose within his uncle
Vern, best he didn’t stir it up anymore. Uncle Vern’s eye of the storm was a
good sign that told you death was well on its way. “Now go to bed. Before I
make you clean horses’ shit for a month.” With that faltering moment in
Will’s life, he left his loss of his uncle behind. Maybe he was a dream
weaver, but he wouldn’t step back one pace from reaching mount glory. With
or without his uncle’s consent, he would follow the path he carved from
sweat and blood.
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Joseph Dragonn.
Published on e-Stories.org on 10.03.2010.