Sir Caedwyr looked down on his ruined
coat of plates and split open shirt of mail, and then on to his
own intestines. Surprisingly, and despite all tales to the contrary,
it hurt. A lot.
He remembered charging across the field on Marybelle, his fine black charger, when some cheeky Scotsman had ducked under his lance point and swung an axe at him. An awful, big axe. What ever had become of his fine steed?
There she was, with what looked to be that cheeky Scotsman sticking out from underneath her. Served him right. Marybelle had always been a boon companion in battle.
“I
suppose I am dying. I wish I could get on with it. This hurts.”
A flutter of wings distracted his musings. Two ravens had settled to ground just past his out-flung arm, which he was sure by the angle was broken but which still clutched the stub of his lance.
“Filthy birds!” Sir
Caedwyr spat.
“I beg your pardon!” the nearer raven exclaimed. It spread its wings and tail feathers in a display of sleek sable plumage. “We are most certainly not filthy birds. See? I’m
as sleek and shiny as a maiden at the marriage alter.
It is you who is covered with muck and filth, lying
there wallowing in that blood-churned mud and drawing
flies. And you call us filthy!”
Sir
Caedwyr flushed with shame. “Your pardon, good ravens. My insolence is reprehensible, and my only excuse is that I am having a bad day.” He
had always prided himself on his courtesy. No reason
at all to fail at that, right at the end.
The
second raven spoke. “No offence taken, Sir
Knight, for we can see that you are indeed
having a bad day. Take heart though, it looks
to be your last one.”
“Yes,” admitted Sir Caedwyr. “I
suppose it is.”
“Well, what did you expect?” This from the first raven. “The world’s a hard enough place, without running around swinging and poking at each other with sharp things. Not that we’re
complaining.”
“No, indeed,” the second chimed. “A
feast for us. We and all our cousins
will be a week or more cleaning
up this lot.”
Sir
Caedwyr grimaced as a wave
of pain and nausea washed over
him. He cried out, “Oh, why
has my lord left me here to
die like this? Why has he not
granted me at least the mercy
of a quick death?”
“Your foes have broken and fled over yonder ridge,” the first raven replied. “Your
lord is harrying them.”
“He left some men behind, to succor the wounded and help along the dying. They’re off over there a way, where the fighting was thickest,” the second raven said. “You’re
kind of off to one
side. I expect they
will work their way
over here, eventually.”
“Not too soon, though,” opined the first. “They
are despoiling
the dead as they
go along, and hauling
the ones from your
side for burial.”
“Less
food for us
and more for
the worms.”
“But
easier
pickings,
that, without
all that
metal wrapped
about it.”
“True enough,” agreed
the
other,
who
hopped
up
on
the
broken
lance
shaft
and
picked
at
a bit
of
intestine.
“Do you mind?” asked Sir Caedwyr, “I’m
not all done here.”
