This piece is an essay that I wrote for Advanced Higher English in 2017. While a competent piece I’ve never been truly happy with it. It is too filled with fluffy description that lengthens the piece and adds little. It also shows how I tend to overuse commas and it is far too long. Despite it’s length I feel like the ending is too short. As a result I’m rewriting this piece from the ground up to further cement the themes, give it a solid beginning-middle-end structure and rewrite the main character into a more unpleasant person to justify his cruel end. As is it sits at 2914 words.
The rains had turned the well-walked path from Warsaw to Lublin into a mud bath that even a pig would turn its nose up at. Sodden ground, churned mud, and horse filth left by the wagons going to and fro along the trail had made it into a slog which tested both travelers physical endurance, as they slipped and slid about, as well as their mental endurance as their noses were practically peeled off their faces by the overwhelming stink. Sir Cahir had been on the road for almost three days now and he was at wits end. It had been months since the last war the king led had ended. Cahir was itching for a fight. While he didn’t have to slog through the mud like the peasants he passed by, he did have to stay on the back of his horse that, while being a fine steed, was built for charging, and was as such not very stable when only ambling along. He was dressed not in his armour, but instead in a gambeson bearing the his family crest, his trusty, battle hardened sword dangling in its scabbard behind his leg, attached to his saddle. His only reprieve from the cold of the night was the burning torch he held aloft.
Cahir came to a crossroads, and lifted his torch to get his bearings. Around the crossroads there were rickety wooden fences that separated fields from the road, the remains of someone's cart, and one solitary oak tree, ancient and warped into a shape that loomed menacingly through the murky blackness towards Cahir. Much to his annoyance however there was no road sign, which meant that he would have to either pick a path at random or wait for someone local to come by to give him directions. He liked neither of those options for one could lead to him getting lost or worse, while the other involved talking to the lower classes, which struck Cahir as being beneath him. A voice called out through the gloom, which shook Cahir from his indecisiveness rather hurriedly.
“Greetings sir! You look lost.”
Cahir was put off by how the voice was somehow soft, well spoken and yet loud enough to startle him. He hurried to reply.
“I am indeed! Where are you? I would prefer a face to talk to.”
“Here sir, beneath the oak.”
Upon hearing the words Cahir immediately caught glimpse, not of a man, but of his burning torch reflected in dark eyes. Beneath the oak, on a particularly large root, sat an older gentleman, dressed in fine, dark clothing unbefitting of a man in this local. He was almost positive there had been no one there only moments before.
“Ah, there you are my good man now, can you tell me the way Black Orchard?”
“Nae sir I cannot,” came the voice from the gloom “turn back Sir, evil haunts that place.”
The stranger’s tone annoyed Cahir. He was a knight, no lowly farmer could tell him where he could and could not go no matter how well dressed he may be. Instead he took the peasant's warning as a challenge.
“Evil indeed?” he clamoured, “Is there some beast that stalks the fields?”
“Nae m’lord, not the fields. Black Orchard is host to an evil woman, she is the terror of the whole county.”
“A woman? Some foul witch? Or perhaps it’s your wife that you’re fearful of?”
“No m’lord, a swordstress. She’s a foreigner sir; arrived in town some months ago. Strange happenings have gone on ever since. Folk claim she’s a harbinger of evil.”
“An evil indeed.” Cahir replied, mockingly.
Cahir feigned indifference but was in reality intrigued by this. Warrior women were few and far between, but often ferocious in a fight, and if there truly was something supernatural behind this devil woman then he may have a hard fight on his hands. But Cahir was in need of a challenge.
“Where can I find this she-devil?” He queried.
Puzzled, the stranger replied “You want to find her Sir? She would surely gut you.”
Impatient, Cahir replied, “I’m not scared of some woman! I want to find her so I can slay her and free your silly little village from her grip you doddering fool! Now tell me where she is - and what she looks like, for that matter.”
A shadow passed over the stranger's face and a sad smile wormed its way onto his soft face.
“If you insist Sir. Follow the left road and you’ll reach Black Orchard in before midnight. She’ll be in the local tavern at this hour, the “White wolf”. You’ll know her the second you see her. She’s tall, lavishly dressed and draped in a head of fire. I can’t promise you’ll be paid for your work m’lord, but I’m sure the orchard folk will make sure you get what you deserve”
Cahir smiled gruesomely, “So long as there are maidens and beer to reward me then I shall leave satisfied.” and with that the knight rode off into the darkness.
The sad smile on the stranger's face melted only to be replaced with a sour grimace and narrow eyes that blazed under the light of Cahir’s torch dwindling torch.
“A virtues man if ever I saw one.” the stranger muttered as Cahir rode off into the distance,
As Cahir rode into Black Orchard he noted how oddly quiet it was. The guards had been loath to let him in, but flashing his royal seal was enough to get him past without much trouble. He had heard the “White Wolf” before he saw it. It radiated a happy chatter that was absent from the rest of the village which lay silent as a hunting wildcat in the night. Cahir guided his steed into the stables alongside the thatched tavern, dismounted and tied his humble companion to the bar above the water trough so she wouldn’t wander off into the night. From his saddlebag he took his armoured chest plate and his helmet. He also took his scabbard and sword from it’s place astride his saddle and fashioned them to his belt along his left leg.
As he pushed open the door to the tavern and took strides to the bar, an eerie quiet descended over the crowds gathered there. Ignoring this, Cahir stood in the hall and scanned the room. The many of the people in the tavern were odd looking, large and hulking, the harsh farming life had taken its toll. Some of them even looked malformed, faces scarred, eye’s misplaced and lips drooping. He could see several booths that were separated from the rest of the tavern by hand sewn curtains made from dark red and amber cloth. Not wanting to search the bar Cahir pulled himself up under the weight of his chest plate and bellowed,
“Where is the fiery she-devil?”
A hushed murmur went about the tavern and after a few seconds an old man spoke up from the corner.
“Take my advice Sir knight, and leave this place, while ye’ can.” The old man said loudly over the crowd.
Quietly enraged Cahir replied, “In the name of the King you will tell me where she is!”
From the far back of the room came a flicker of light as a candle was blown out. From behind a curtain came a woman, nearly as tall as Cahir and dressed in a long jacket finely crafted from teal silk. She wore long baggy leggings and a green silken top, unlaced to half way down to her naval. Her neck, fingers and ears were adorned with jewelry of gold, silver and precious stone. At her side, in a half scabbard lay a huge longsword with a wide handle and a long curved blade. She wore her scarlet red hair in a loose braid, with the right side of her head shaved and the braid dangling over her left shoulder. She was ornate, and she would have been beautiful had it not been for several butchered scars. One drew down her cheek nearly joining her ear to her lips and the other lining the side of her head that had been shaved, as if to show it off, in a large T shape. She was battle hardened, and she stood, not elegantly, but powerfully, with her hand on her pommel, ready to draw the blade at a moment's notice. Her body was lean, pale and thin, though made to look larger than it was by her long baggy clothing. She looked totally out of place amongst the humble farmers and stood out like a heron amongst crows against their tanned bulk.
“The king demands my attention be given to this fellow so he shall have it! My name is Lilith, what is your business in my village, knight?” The woman said in a harsh, heavily accented voice.
“I’ve come to end your tyranny,” replied Cahir callously “I challenge you to a duel of chivalric combat in the name of his lordship the king and under the gaze of God.”
“Tyranny! In my village? How dare you slander my name so?” Came the angry reply “Come then ‘fair knight’,” She said sarcastically “I will meet your challenge. Step out into the street so these good folk can enjoy their evenings.”
Cahir backed out through the doorway he’d been standing in out into the torch lit street, not taking his eyes of the swordstress that lazily followed him. He stood on the main street with thatched huts lining the road either side of him, the wide road was dark, except from the flickering light of flame that danced on his adversary's face and along the loose cobbles from the braziers dotted about the street the street. Deciding he had gone far enough he held his ground and drew his sword. The swordstress stopped too, just over ten paces away from him and drew her sword, wielding it in two hands and holding it above her head, pointed at Cahir, in a stance unfamiliar to him. Cahir held his out in front of him in a single hand, as his grandfather had taught him, and readied his legs. She would be faster than him, but he would be heavier, stronger and more brutal. If she tried to parry he would break through, of that he was confident. Meeting her eyes he taunted her.
“You will know the taste of blood before the sun rises!” he bellowed.
“Burn in hell.” she spat back.
The two began to circle each other each waiting for the other to strike. Finally, Lilith flew into a charge, using the light of a fire directly behind her to mask the attack. She let out a banshee scream and jumped before she struck, her curved blade crashing down against Cahir’s high parry. From there she spun, using her momentum to move to Cahir’s left and strike on his open side, but the knight was quicker than he looked and back stepped to avoid the blow, going for his own low strike, which the swordstress dodged with ease. Lilith backed away with her sword aloft while Cahir gathered both of his hands on his sword handle and prepared to strike. They paused and met eyes, both filled with furious intent.
This time is was Cahir who broke the silence with a colossal upwards swing which Lilith tried and mostly failed to block, as while she wasn’t struck by the blade she was put off balance. Cahir used this advantage to bring the sword down on her open side, missing the nimble woman by a hair. Lilith used this as an opportunity to try for an downwards strike which Cahir had no option but to block with his arm, in doing so he felt the swordstress’ blade bite into his bone. Two agonised cries went up into the night, for while Lilith had wounded Cahir, he had used her open strike as an opportunity to slash across her stomach, which she had not been able to avoid.
Tangled together in a mess of flesh and steel Lilith ripped the sword from Cahir’s arm and swung wide aiming for the head, but in her panic loosened her grip, and hit Cahir’s helmet with the flat of her blade. The blow didn’t kill the man but it sent him reeling backwards where he tripped and fell, losing grip of his bloodied sword. Holding her profusely bleeding belly in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood Lilith turned and staggered into the night.
Cahir came back to his senses dumbfounded that he didn’t have a blade in his neck. He tried to push himself up but collapsed under the sheer pain of his butchered arm. Finally pulling himself to his feet he cut the sleeve from his gambeson and wrapped it around his arm as a temporary bandage before picking up his blade in his good hand and looking around for his opponent. She had disappeared, but he knew she wouldn’t get far, his blow had been a mortal one. Looking around he found a trail of blood smeared onto the cobbles in drops and in a pain fueled rage, charged after it.
As the trail led into a narrow alleyway it got clearer and thicker as his opponent had begun to bleed thicker and faster. The blood spilt on the ground was bright and frothy, bled straight from the stomach. Lilith would be dead in minutes. The trail lead to an open door in a high cut stone wall. Careful to keep his footsteps light, Cahir pushed the door ajar.
Inside he could see a large room, unlit by fire barring the weak flame of two candelabra’s at the top of a small flight of steps. It was on the steps that Cahir saw his victim. Lilith’s legs had collapsed from under her and she was dragging herself up the stairs on violently shaking arms, her breaths once well rhythmed and discipline were now little more than whimpers and gurgles. Cahir began to walk slowly down the center of the hall towards her, steeling himself and adjusting the grip on his blade. As he walked, she pulled herself onto a stone plinth that lay between the candelabras, holding herself there with bloodied fingers. Cahir strode towards her, broken by bloodied anger and painful rage, and grasped Lilith by her long braid with a blood matted hand.
“A quick death is a bitter mercy.” he whispered.
With that he plunged his blade down between her shoulders, straight through her heart and, with some difficulty, pulled it free. Lilith's lifeless body collapsed over the plinth, her dark red life spilling in waves from her wounds.
Cahir stood, drenched in blood with his sword in hand. As he surveyed his surroundings he realised the room had begun to swim and turn before his eyes, and Cahir was surprised to find himself on his knees. From a shadowed alcove at the back of the hall, a figure emerged holding a candle, which he dropped with haste when he saw the horrific scene that Cahir lay in.
“Murder!” the figure called out “Blasphemy, heresy and bloody murder! Blood shed on holy ground!”
Cahir was horrified by this revelation, the plinth was an altar and the hall, a church.
“No…” he muttered “No, I didn’t know, I didn’t mean to…”
Swimming in and out of consciousness he was vaguely aware of the sound of bells and rough hands on his shoulders, all the time muttering incoherently.
When Cahir finally came too he felt as though he was floating. To his horror he quickly realised that he was in fact tied to a stake in the ground, atop a huge pile of cut wood and kindling. A man in dark robes walked forward, bearing a torch that burned bright in the inky darkness of the night, and with a shake of his head, tossed it onto the pile.
“Mercy!” Cahir screamed, panicking “Mercy! Oh please sweet mercy! I didn’t know, how could I know? Have mercy!”
“Your lust for the blood of others has lead you to ruin.” said the hooded figure in a familiar voice “Your blood will boil as a penitence. As above, so below.”
With horror Cahir recognised the figure as the stranger in black he had met at the crossroads. Looking around he saw a crowd of horrible apparitions, specters and ghouls gathered to watch him burn. Weird wives with pointed hats and long cloaks, cold corpse men bound in chains and a cat eyed wolf man, white with age, with a raven sat gracefully on his shoulder. As the flames danced higher, so the aberrations followed, dancing wildly to the music of smoldering wood. Cahir could feel the flames leaping to his clothes and in a final burst of fear screamed into the night,
“Mercy Lord! My life is yours if you only save it!”
Across the stranger's face a sick smile spread like a disease, beneath eyes which reflected Cahir’s burning image.
“I want not for your life,” He replied with a grin “for I’ll have your soul.”
With that the stranger turned from the fire and the dancing horrors, and walked calmly into the darkness, listening to the frantic screams of the burning knight. Traipsing through the bloodied trail left by the warriors battle he became one with the night, with his path forward illuminated only by the fire burning in his eyes.
