The night was dark and cold, the rain drizzling as the thunder struck vigorously. Chirurgeon Breaus lay motionless, still in a coma.
Chirurgeon Breaus, the grand chirurgeon or "grand chir" as they called it, had been attacked by unknown forces a few nights prior.
"We are going to lose a great man," Sir Cole said, his voice laced with concern.
Young Barrys, who had lived with Breaus all his life in Westwood, looked up at Sir Cole in disappointment. The lady attendant in the room kept checking Chirurgeon Breaus' temperature with her palms, her actions seeming to stretch out forever from Barrys' anxious perspective.
"You might start telling him your last words," the lady attendant suggested, her voice soft and somber.
Disbelief etched on Barrys' face, he watched as both the lady attendant and Sir Cole left the room, leaving him and Chirurgeon Breaus alone in the darkness. The night seemed to grow even thicker and more oppressive, the only sound the steady drumbeat of the rain outside.
****
The next morning, Concerns about Chirurgeon Breaus' health were temporarily replaced by the thrill of the Decennial melee, set to take place in Westwood. The Knight King and all the lords of the realm would be in attendance. Barrys woke up to the sweet sound of birds chirping, looking up at the sky with hope for a fruitful day.
After a few minutes of preparation, a knock at the door broke the silence. "Ye Barrys!" Sir Cole called out as he entered. "I wish you good fortune today in the melee." Barrys' face lit up with a bright smile as he embraced Sir Cole, who was like a father figure to him.
"I hope to make you proud, Sir Cole," Barrys said, his voice steady and assured.
Sir Cole emphasized the importance of winning the melee, sharing his own experience of emerging victorious a decade ago in the capital. However, he revealed that he wouldn't be able to watch the melee, as he had important matters to attend to, instructed by the Knight King.
I hope to make you proud, Sir Cole," Barrys said, his voice steady and assured.
"I hope you have your boon choices ready," Sir Cole said, his parting words laced with a hint of excitement. "The stakes are high on you today, and the bookies are eager to see your performance."
With that, Sir Cole departed, leaving Barrys to prepare for the grand event ahead.
Gareth and Rogan also signed up for the melee, and Barrys couldn't resist teasing them. "You two have no chance if you meet me in the rounds," he said with a grin.
Gareth shot back, "That is, if you make the qualifying rounds."
Barrys laughed hard, his confidence in his swordsmanship clear. "I'm the best swordsman in all of Westwood," he boasted.
Rogan, the eldest of the three, chimed in, "Enough bragging, boy." His eyes gleamed with a more practical interest - the gold prize. Both Gareth and Rogan had their sights set on winning the melee, their motivations driven by the promise of wealth rather than honor or adventure.
As the sun reached it's zenith, a fanfare of trumpets echoed through Westwood, signaling the arrival of the Knight King. The air was electric the anticipation as the crowds parted to reveal a profession of grandeur. The Knight King's Cavalcade, adorned with the royal crest, led the way, followed by the lords of the realm, each with their own distinctive banners and liveries.
The moment of truth had finally arrived. The crowd held its collective breath as young Barrys stepped forward, his sword at the ready. The Knight King nodded in approval, and the drums sounded. The caller's voice boomed: "Barrys of Westwood, first contender in the Decennial Melee! Going up against Sir Windor of Windsdale! Let the tournament begin!"
With a fierce cry, backed by the home ground support, Barrys charged into the arena. His sword flashed in the sunlight as he clashed with his opponent. Sir Windor, a burly knight from the northern parts of Windsdale, emerged from the opposite gate. The two warriors engaged in a flurry of steel and sparks, their blades ringing out as they exchanged blow after blow. It was a tale of youth versus experience.
Barrys' skill and prowess with a sword were evident in every move he made. However, Sir Windor, a seasoned veteran of many battles, was not to be underestimated. He countered Barrys' initial flurry with a series of powerful blows, his sword slicing through the air with deadly precision.
Barrys danced aside, his agility and quick reflexes allowing him to avoid the worst of the attacks. He quickly launched himself at Sir Windor, his sword flashing in the sunlight. The older knight was caught off guard by the sudden attack, and Barrys' blade slipped past his defenses, striking true.
Sir Windor stumbled backwards, his eyes wide with surprise, as Barrys pressed his advantage.
The crowd was on its feet, cheering and chanting Barrys' name as he struck again and again, his sword sliding through with deadly precision. Sir Windor tried to rally, but Barrys was literally unstoppable, his youth and momentum proving too much for the seasoned veteran.
With a final decisive blow, Barrys struck Sir Windor's sword from his hand, sending it flying across the arena.
The crowd erupted into a deafening roar as Barrys stood triumphant, his chest heaving with exhaustion, his sword still trembling with the force of his final blow.
Gareth's hopes of advancing to the next round were dashed as he fell to Sir Edric the Dark Knight. The bookies, including Rogan, had predicted this outcome, and the Dark Knight's easy victory over the out-of-shape Gareth was no surprise.
Rogan, however, was in high spirits, having won both of his bets by correctly predicting Barrys and the Dark Knight's progress. His own turn arrived, and he faced off against a middle-aged man named Morris. The fight was lackluster, a far cry from the thrilling battle between Barrys and Windsor earlier.
Despite being the clear favorite, Rogan suffered a shocking defeat at the hands of Morris. The crowd booed, suspecting foul play. Rogan exited the arena in fake disgust, but his disappointment was short-lived. "The golds keep piling up for the master of coin," he said with a smile, counting his winnings.
However, his joy was short-lived. A group of guards stormed into his tent, arresting him. Rogan was left crying in shock, asking, "What did I do?" One of the guards replied, "You'll know when you're questioned in court."
Barrys effortlessly won his next four matches, dispatching a handful of lowly opponents seeking the boon. The quarterfinals were set to take place the following day.
Despite the hectic pace of the tournament, Barrys made it a point to visit Chirurgeon Breaus during each break. The lady attendant's words weighed heavily on his mind: "His breaths are numbered." She administered drugs to the ailing Chirurgeon, but his condition continued to deteriorate.
Just then, a heavy knock at the door broke the somber mood. Gareth burst in, urgency etched on his face. "Rogan has been arrested by the authorities! He's facing the court panel as we speak." Barrys' eyes widened in shock as he rushed alongside Gareth to the main Court of Westwood.
****
IN THE COURT
Rogan stood before the panel of judges, his wrists bound by heavy chains, normally the lord of Westwood, Lord Weah deals with matters in court but not lowly things like this should waste his time in an already busy schedule. The court room was packed, with many curious onlookers eager to witness the proceedings.
"So, Rogan," began the lead judge, a stern-looking woman with a piercing gaze, "you have been accused of fraud and rigging the melee bets. How do you plead?"
Rogan smirked, his confidence unwavering. "I plead innocent, of course. These charges are baseless and ridiculous."
The judge raised an eyebrow. "Really? Then explain why our investigators found large sums of gold in your possession, and several witnesses have come forward to testify against you."
Rogan shrugged. "I'm a successful gambler, that's all. I've made some lucky bets, and I've been generous with my winnings. That's all there is to it."
The judge sighed. "We'll see about that. Bring in the first witness."
Surprisingly, Morris entered, and Rogan's facial expression betrayed his shock. "I thought we had a deal" was written all over his face.
As the trial progressed, it became clear that Rogan's chances of acquittal were slim. The evidence against him mounted, and his own arrogance worked against him.
Rogan Cristel, you have been found guilty," the judge declared. "With the power vested in me, I hereby sentence you to three years imprisonment in the dungeon."
Barrys and Gareth wore displeased expressions as Rogan walked past them. Barrys' thoughts were a mix of curiosity and concern - what had Rogan done? Would the master of coin find his way out yet again?
****
IN THE CARE ROOM
The Dark Knight entered the dimly lit room, his heavy boots echoing off the stone walls. Chirurgeon Breaus lay motionless on the bed, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. The Dark Knight approached, his helmet tucked under his arm, revealing his chiseled features and piercing gaze.
"Chirurgeon Breaus," he said, his deep voice filled with reverence. "I owe you a debt of gratitude. You saved my arm, and with it, my future."
Breaus' eyes flickered open, a hint of recognition in his gaze. "Sir…Edric?" He whispered, his voice weak.
The Dark Knight nodded, a small smile on his lips. "The same. I've come to repay your kindness, Chirurgeon. You cured my arm, allowing me to become the knight I am today."
Breaus' eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips. "I remember…you were just a boy…same age as…Barrys…"
Sir Edric's gaze narrowed, his interest piqued. "Barrys? Ah, yes…the young warrior who bested Sir Windor. I've been keeping an eye on him. He's a worthy opponent, and I sense a rivalry brewing between us."
Breaus' eyes opened again, a hint of urgency in his gaze. "Protect…him…Sir Edric. He's…important…"
Sir Edric's expression turned serious, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I will, Chirurgeon. I swear it. Barrys may be a rival, but he's also a valuable asset to our realm. I'll ensure his safety, and perhaps…tomorrow, if he makes the final, which I most definitely will, we would face each other."
With a nod, Sir Edric turned to leave, his cape billowing behind him. Barrys entered the room, their eyes locking in a tense stare. The air was heavy with unspoken challenge, their rivalry palpable.
Sir Edric's gaze narrowed, his hand on the hilt of his sword, while Barrys' eyes burned with determination. The moment hung suspended until Barrys broke the silence, his voice low and even. "Sir…?"
Sir Edric replied firmly, "Edric."
Barrys nodded with affirmation. "I didn't know you knew Chirurgeon Breaus."
Sir Edric's expression remained neutral, but his voice hinted at a deeper connection. "We have a history, Barrys. One that binds me to this man's fate."
Without another word, Sir Edric departed, leaving Barrys to tend to Breaus. Barrys' gaze lingered on the Chirurgeon's frail old form, his heart filled with a mix of emotions. He had never seen Breaus so vulnerable, and it stirred a deep sense of responsibility within him.
As the night wore on, Barrys cared for Breaus with a dedication that bordered on obsession. He changed the Chirurgeon's bandages, fed him broth, and whispered words of encouragement. Breaus' condition remained precarious, but Barrys refused to give up hope.
Later, under the cover of darkness, Barrys snuck out of the room, his destination the dungeon. Rogan's arrest and sentencing had left him reeling, and he needed answers.
The corridors were dimly lit, the only sound the soft clinking of chains and the distant murmur of guards. Barrys reached the dungeon, his heart pounding in his chest. He spotted Rogan in the corner of his cell, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of defiance and desperation.
"Rogan," Barrys whispered, his voice barely audible. "What happened? Why did you do it?"
Rogan's gaze locked onto Barrys, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I did it for the gold, Barrys. And for the thrill of it all. But most of all, I did it for you."
Barrys' eyes narrowed, confusion and anger warring within him. "For me? What do you mean?"
Rogan's smile grew wider, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Tomorrow, by nightfall, we're getting you out of here, okay?" Barrys shrugged, his voice low.
Rogan's smirk grew, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Go, go, go," he whispered, as footsteps echoed through the corridor, signaling the approach of guards.
With that, the conversation ended, leaving Barrys with more questions than answers. He slipped back into the shadows, his mind racing with possibilities.
****
Barrys woke up to a somber morning. The sunlight peeking through the windows seemed dimmer than usual, and the air felt heavy with sorrow. He stretched his arms, feeling a mix of fatigue and excitement for the quarterfinals of the melee ahead. But as he sat up, he noticed a curvy figure standing in his room, their face grave and solemn. It was Lady Attendant Miley, her eyes red-rimmed and her expression sorrowful.
Barrys' heart began to race as he sensed something was wrong. "Miley, what is it?" Barrys asked, his voice shaking slightly.
Lady Miley took a deep breath before speaking, her words barely a whisper. "Barrys, I'm so sorry to tell you this, but… Chirurgeon Breaus has passed away."
Barrys felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Breaus, the man who had been like a father to him, was gone? "No" Barrys whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. "That can't be."
Lady Attendant Miley's expression was unchanging, her eyes filled with sympathy. "I'm afraid it's true, Barrys. He passed away during the night. His condition was too severe, and I tried…"
Barrys didn't let her finish. He threw off his covers and rushed out of the room, his heart heavy with grief. He needed to see Breaus for himself, to make sure this wasn't some cruel joke. As he ran through the corridors, the sounds of the melee faded into the background, replaced by the echoes of his own sorrow.
He burst into Breaus' room, his eyes scanning the bed for the familiar figure. But it was empty, the sheets neatly tucked in, and a white cloth covering the still form of the Chirurgeon. Barrys felt his world crumble around him. He had never felt such a deep loss before, and he didn't know how to process it.
He collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his face as he mourned the loss of the man who had been his mentor, his friend, and his family.
"Barrys, my condolences," said Old Man Richards, as he walked through the door. Old Man Richards was arguably Breaus' best friend; both had lived together in Westwood for many years.
Gareth came in also to comfort Barrys. "You must win the tournament in his name, Barrys," said Gareth with utmost sympathy.
"I caused all this," Barrys cried, his voice shaking with grief. "Last week, I should have escorted Breaus to the town of Lin. If we probably were attacked, we would have both died together. This is all my fault."
Barrys cried even harder, overcome with remorse. Gareth couldn't utter a single word, feeling only pity for Barrys' pain.
****
IN THE COURT
The doors to the court of Westwood burst open, and the caller's voice boomed through the hall.
"His Majesty, the Knight King, has arrived!"
The lords and nobles rose to their feet, their faces bowed in respect as the Knight King entered the court. His Majesty's presence was imposing, his broad shoulders and strong jawline radiating authority.
He strode to the throne, his eyes scanning the room before settling on Barrys, who stood frozen in grief. The Knight King's expression turned somber as he began to speak.
"My dear lords and nobles, I bring forth grave news. Chirurgeon Breaus, a man of unparalleled skill and dedication, has passed into the realm of the ancestors."
The court erupted into a chorus of condolences and sorrowful murmurs. The Knight King raised his hand, and the room fell silent once more.
I had extended an offer to Breaus to serve as my Royal Chirurgeon in the capital, but he respectfully declined, choosing to remain in Westwood to continue his noble work. His expertise was unmatched, and his cures for various diseases had saved countless lives. His writings and records will be a valuable treasure for our realm, and I hope they will continue to inspire and guide our Chirurgeons."
The Knight King paused, his eyes sweeping the room.
"Though we mourn his loss, we must also honor his legacy. The melee will continue today in honor of Chirurgeon Breaus. May his memory inspire the contestants to strive for greatness, just as he did in his life."
The court erupted into a mixture of applause and condolences, the lords and nobles bowing their heads in respect. Barrys felt a lump form in his throat as he gazed upon the Knight King, gratitude and sorrow warring within him.
He knew that Breaus would have wanted the melee to continue, and he steeled himself to compete with renewed purpose, to honor the man who had been like a father to him.
****
THE QUARTER FINALS
As Barrys stepped into the arena, the crowd's roar was deafening. His heart still heavy with grief, he focused on the task at hand. His opponent, a skilled warrior but not a knight, stood across from him. Barrys drew his sword, its familiar weight a comfort in his hand.
The battle was swift and decisive. His opponent put up a good fight, but Barrys was driven by a fierce determination. He could feel Breaus' presence within him, urging him on. His sword sliced through the air, striking true time and again.
The crowd cheered, but Barrys barely heard them. His eyes were fixed on the opponent, his mind fixed on the memory of Breaus. The fight was over. He stood victorious, as expected, his chest heaving with exertion.
The crowd erupted into cheers, but Barrys just stood there, his eyes welling up with tears. He could feel the grief and passion warring within, fueling every move.
As he left the arena, he caught a glimpse of Sir Edric, the Dark Knight. He had also won his match, his skills honed to perfection. Their eyes met, and Sir Edric came towards Barrys.
"Sir Barrys, my condolences," he said. Barrys nodded quietly, his eyes still brimming with tears.
I wish you good fortune in the semis," Sir Edric continued. "I hope to meet you in the final. I will make it to the final, and I will defeat you in your hometown."
Barrys walked away without saying a word. Sir Edric felt the determination and eerie presence as Barrys walked by.
On came the semis as Barrys stood in the arena, his sword at the ready. The semifinals was about to begin, and his opponent was another skilled warrior. The crowd was electric, their cheers and chants echoing off the stone walls. He focused on the battle ahead, Heart with grief and Mind clear as ever. Another intense fight but Barrys just won't be stopped yet! He had the upper hand and stood victorious again, his sword raised high up in triumph. Sir Edric also won his Semi Final clash against a veteran, setting up Barrys against Sir Edric for the Melee Final, such price at stake.
As Barrys made his way back to the tent being greeted by Old Man Richards and Gareth, his mind now racing with thoughts and strategies. He knew Sir Edric was a formidable opponent, but he was determined to win. For Breaus and for the pride of the Western Folks. The next hour would be the longest of his life but Barrys maintained maximum composure and was ready. Bring it on, Sir Edric, Bring it on.
****
THE FINALS
Sir Edric the Dark Knight, stood facing Barrys in the arena. The Knight King and every on-watcher anticipated the finale. Their blades gleamed in the sunlight as the crowd roared. Both men tuned out the noise, focusing on themselves.
Sir Edric showed his experience as a knight of the capital, a formidable young warrior with a sword made of the best steel in the lands. The fight began, and their blades clashed equally. Barrys was quick and agile, having opted for lighter armor, but Sir Edric had the advantage of strength.
Neither refused to back down, each strike pushing the other to their limits. Sweat dripped from Sir Edric's brow, his breath heavy, but he wouldn't yield. Barrys landed a lucky strike, and Sir Edric stumbled back, his armor dented.
As Sir Edric recovered, Barrys took advantage of his brief lapse. His blade struck again, cleanly hitting Sir Edric, who fell to one knee, defeated. As Barrys stood over him, his chest heaving, Sir Edric looked up with a nod of respect.
You have earned my respect, Barrys," he said sincerely. "Your skill and honor are worthy of recognition." Barrys offered a hand up, and Sir Edric accepted, their arms clasping in a symbol of mutual respect.
The crowd erupted in cheers, but both knew the true victory was in the bond forged between them in the intense battle. "Ole! Ole!" chants echoed through the arena as Barrys stood victorious, receiving applause and a standing ovation.
Barrys could see Old Man Richards and Gareth smiling from afar. He looked up at the sky, wishing Chirurgeon Breaus could witness this moment. "Sir Cole, I have done it," he thought.
As Barrys stood victorious, the Knight King summoned him forward. The boon, his reward for winning the melee, was his to claim. He took a deep breath and spoke his desire aloud.
I ask to be a Knight, not just any Knight, but a knight of the High Table." The words resonated through the arena, followed by a collective gasp. The Knight King's expression turned from surprise to intrigue, his eyes narrowing as he considered Barrys' request.
The silence was palpable, the crowd holding its breath as the Knight King deliberated. Then, with a nod, he spoke, "Your request is granted, Barrys. Your coronation as a Knight of the High Table will take place tonight, alongside a feast in your honor."
The arena erupted once more, the crowd's roar thundering like a storm. Barrys raised his sword, basking in the adoration, his heart swelling with pride. He had done the impossible, following in the footsteps of his teacher, Sir Cole.
As he stood there, bathed in glory, he knew this was only the beginning. The political landscape of the kingdom would soon be his to navigate, alongside Knights of the high table. He was ready to forge his own path as a Knight.
Later that night after a successful tournament, Barrys couldn't rest easy with his impending coronation as a Knight of the High Table. His mind raced with thoughts of Rogan, the Master of Coin, languishing in the dungeon. His crime: rigging melee bets. Barrys knew he had to act swiftly, before his new status made it impossible to help Rogan.
He snuck away from the festivities, making his way to the dungeon. His heart pounded as he approached Rogan's cell. He found Rogan pacing, his eyes gleaming with a mix of hope and despair.
"Rogan, I've come to get you out," Barrys whispered urgently. Rogan's eyes widened as Barrys quickly explained his victory in the melee and his boon choices.
Disappointment flickered across Rogan's face. "You didn't ask for gold? Many men would have."
"I know, Rogan. But I wanted something more valuable: Knightship and a place at the High Table."
They both hastened to a secret escape route, a horse waiting for Rogan. As they parted ways, Rogan grasped Barrys' arm. "You're a true friend, Barrys. May your new position bring you wisdom and power."
With a nod, Barrys watched him disappear into the night, bound for the north to start anew. Their goodbyes were brief, but the bond remained strong. He returned to the coronation ceremony, his heart lighter knowing he had helped a friend.
Also that night Old Man Richards ventured into the darkness with two of his workers, seeking the elusive Syremyl flowers. Their beauty and rarity made them a coveted treasure, especially among the ladies. Tonight, under the full moon, they hoped to find a bounty.
As they combed through the forest, their lanterns casting eerie shadows, they sensed a strange energy in the air. Suddenly, a blinding light enveloped them, and a powerful force attacked. The workers fell, their screams echoing through the night.
Old Man Richards ran, his heart pounding, but the darkness seemed to swallow him. He stumbled, his breath ragged, and dared not look back. The gods were relentless. Old Man Richards knew these woods like the back of his hand, but fear clouded his mind.
The Syremyl flowers, their quest, seemed futile now. He kept running, the darkness his only solace. Finally, he saw a glimmer of light in the distance - his cottage. He burst through the door, slamming it shut behind him. Panting, he leaned against the door, his heart heavy with grief.
His workers, gone. The Syremyl flowers, forgotten. The spirit, still out there, lurking in the darkness.
****
The coronation ceremony proceeded with grandeur, and Barrys was called forward to be made a Knight of the High Table. But just as the ritual reached its climax, the doors burst open, and Old Man Richards stumbled in, wild-eyed and frantic.
"The gods, I saw the gods!" he cried, his voice echoing through the hall. "They attacked us, my workers and me!"
The Knight King's expression darkened, and he slammed his fist on the armrest. "Enough of your nonsense, Old Man Richards! You will not spread such offensive words here!"
But before the guards could drag him away, one of the workers who had been killed earlier in the search for Syremyl flowers appeared, crawling and grasping his last breath. His eyes locked onto Old Man Richards, and he pointed a trembling finger.
The guards searched Old Man Richards and found a dagger stained with blood. The Knight King's face turned red with rage. "You have been found guilty of murder and uttering offensive words. I sentence you to die!"
The Knight King turned to Sir Barrys, his eyes cold and unforgiving. "Sir Barrys, as your first duty as a Knight of the High Table, I order you to execute Old Man Richards."
Barrys' heart raced as he hesitated, torn between his duty and his friendship with Old Man Richards. But the Knight King's gaze bore into him, leaving no room for defiance. With a heavy heart, Barrys took up his sword and ended Old Man Richards' life. The night couldn't be colder.
****
Next morning the sun cast a golden glow as the Knight King and Sir Barrys departed Westwood, bound for the capital. The newly minted Knight of the High Table rode alongside his monarch, his thoughts still reeling from the events of the previous night. The execution of Old Man Richards weighed heavily on his mind.
Meanwhile, Sir Edric the Dark Knight rode towards the capital, his black armor a stark contrast to the bright dawn. His eyes seemed lost in thought, his expression unreadable.
As they journeyed, Gareth approached Barrys, his eyes shining with excitement. "Barrys, may I have the honor of serving as your squire?" he asked, his voice filled with hope.
Barrys' gaze was cold, his voice detached. "it's Sir Barrys now, and yes Gareth. You may serve as my squire."
The group continued on, the silence between them palpable. Barrys' mind raced with the challenges ahead in the capital. As a Knight of the High Table, he would be expected to navigate the intricate web of court politics, all while upholding his duty to the Knight King and the realm. The weight of his new responsibilities settled heavy on his shoulders. What lay ahead for Sir Barrys in the capital? Only time would tell.