being what he was. A stocky man with slightly gray hair
and a perpetual scowl blocked his path with an open cart
drawn by two oxen. Several other villagers stood behind the
man.
“What do you want here, oh great and noble knight?”
The venom fairly dripped from his mouth.
Garrick sighed. “I have sworn by the Measure that I will
defend my fellow men from the evil that is the Queen. I
intend to keep that pledge.”
They laughed. Laughed loudly. The laughter was
magnified a thousand times in Garrick’s mind, though he
knew it would come. It always had. The loud, bitter
laughter.
The stocky leader stepped closer, his eyes shifting back
and forth between the knight and the warhorse. It was
obvious that he did not trust either of them. Closer now, he
studied Garrick’s battered armor, the chipped and bent
weapons, his pale and sweating face.
“Aye, you look like a terror that will frighten away the
dark ones. Frighten them into conquering the world, I’d
say!”
There was more laughter, though much more muted
than before. The looks the villagers gave Garrick were ugly,
full of hate. Hate for his not having been there when it
counted. The leader shifted closer, his intentions clear. Pull
the knight down into the mud where he belonged. The
knight drew his well-worn blade with a speed that belied his
weary appearance. He kept the group at bay with the
weapon, allowing no one within arm’s length.
“For your own sakes, move on.”
Muttering, they did so, much more quickly and
complacently than Garrick would have thought possible for
them. He realized why with a sadness that sank him deeper
into the darkness he had ridden in since Standel’s death. He
was nothing to them. If anything, they were disgusted with
him. Disgusted with all the knights.
It hurt Garrick that they had good reasons for their
hatred.
The few huts he passed now were stripped of anything
worth carrying. Mere shells. Skeletons. It was as if the war
had already been through here. In a sense, he realized,
perhaps it had. Standel would have been stronger, more able
to cope with the shouts, the curses, the looks. Garrick could
not understand why he should live while a better knight
should die so ignominiously. Not for the first time since his
companion’s death, he wavered slightly in his belief in the
Measure.
The ground reached for him. Garrick steadied himself and
wiped his brow. To collapse this close, to leave his task
unfinished, would be unforgivable. Paladine would surely
condemn him. He waited for exhaustion to overtake him,
but something held back the final fall. A warmth in his
chest, around his neck. A feeling of guidance and love.
His shaking hand tugged hard on the chain circling his
throat. The medallion given to him so long ago gleamed
despite the lack of any sunshine. On each side of the
medallion were engraved words from the Measure. More
important, the medallion carried the face of Paladine as
known by the Knights of Solamnia.
The pain in his mind eased. Paladine had not
condemned him after all. There was still some purpose to
Garrick’s life, some reason the god still watched over him.
He thanked his lord and allowed the piece to thump against
his chest again. Though his body was worn beyond the
limits of most men, he smiled gratefully. He would be
allowed the chance to fulfill his Oath.
Somewhere to the south lay his objective. Somewhere
to the south, perhaps four days, perhaps only two, lay part
of the advancing army of the Dragon Highlord – a sizable
portion commanded by one of the Highlord’s most
dangerous generals. Pushing ever closer, its only real
obstacle was the tiny garrison four days north from
Garrick’s present location.
They would be forced to travel through the woods to
obtain the pass, he realized. In the woods, they would be
vulnerable. In the woods, he stood a chance.
He came across the bodies just after crossing a stream.
They had been carelessly stacked to one side. Plague
victims. The stench nearly overwhelmed him. The knight
shivered. Better to die in battle than waste away in the end.