Recently edited story that i wrote when I was 12 or 13 years old.

The wind beat hard on the worn metal of the knight’s armor driving piercing rain into the gaps between her arms and chest as she rode swiftly onward through the gale, thinking of only one thing: the small child she’d seen carried off earlier that day, during one of the raids on the small city of Racq.

Her horse, a tan mare, galloped nervously, sensing her rider’s tension and anger. The knight was Sir Olive de Portiere, a female knight among many others under the service of the King Craigmen of Mostapolt, a city dominated by the rich and powerful. Raids were not unusual in those parts, they were almost routine for the knights.

Olive was used to the raids and their destruction, and often allowed her body to take over, not thinking but responding to instinct and training. This was why she was still alive- she had not allowed her mind to sweep over the demolished building, bodies of innocent people, and slaughtered livestock that littered the desecrated village.

She was not supposed to be following the trail of raiders who were carrying one small child. She should have been at home, with her lover and her child, telling yet another grim tale to Richard, while their small son, Jacob, clung to her trousers. But she wasn’t. She was following kidnappers, without an order- in fact, in direct contradiction to her orders- and she wasn’t exactly sure why. Perhaps it was hatred, or the thought of her own small son that made her follow the large party as it escaped. Either way, she had spurred her horse on after them- though she did not closely follow them, for there were too many for her to take on at once; she would need the element of surprise if she wanted to live.

The sudden storm was a blessing, and though she sensed it wasn’t natural, there was no time to question it. Suddenly, a bolt of lightening flashed across the sky, like a hot needle through flesh. It blinded her for a moment, and she felt herself falling slowly, with no real sense of direction, only knowing that she might have been struck by lightening.

When Olive opened her eyes and took her hands away from her head, she was in a ditch, and lying beside her was her horse, crumpled in such a position that she knew it was far from alive. Its neck was broken, and its legs twisted like bent spokes. Olive bit back a sudden wave of nausea; the mare had been hers since she was a colt, and Olive had loved her like she loved her son.

Feeling anger and lunch rising in her throat, she lifted her head and gazed up over the side of the ditch. It was deep enough to cause damage, but small enough not to be noticed.

Especially if there’s a shaman guarding it. Olive thought with a sudden shudder.

No knight, not even the strongest and most powerful, could withstand a shaman, unless he or she had been trained in magical combat- a practice that was only just being introduced to the army. Olive herself was supposed to be taking one of many courses in it in the coming weeks.

Rising painfully to her feet, Olive noted with disdain a large gash reaching up her calf, cause by a jagged piece of wood sticking out of the uneven, sandy ground. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her wits about her and began to climb up the roughly dug ditch. When she reached the top some five minutes later, she was sweating despite the pouring rain and wind. As she sat on the edge, Olive noticed a long strip of metal, so thin it was hardly noticeable, stretching across the top of the ditch, a few inches back from the edge. With the right timing, it could cause a horse to trip and take itself and its rider down into the ditch. Oliver wondered how many had met their fate like this before, and if, as she was starting to suspect, it was the first of many traps. She stood up, and began picking her way nimbly, and as the dirt gave way to sand Olive knew she had almost reached the boundaries of Mostapolt.

Her rain and sweat soaked hair dangling in her eyes, and the cut on her leg stinging painfully, she made her way, still onward, trying to concentrate on the road, the sky, and what was in front of her all at once. She stumbled and fell, getting a mouthful of sand and grit. Olive spat it out and got up, forcing herself to concentrate on putting on foot in front of the other.

Her mouth felt like moist chalk and her face burned from the hard rain, which was being thrown on her in such enormous quantities she was sure it was the work of a well skilled shaman, or even a Mystic, which meant trouble for sure.

Suddenly, up ahead out of way of the path, she saw a light, nestled in the last patch of trees before the opened desert, it glowed promisingly, and almost kindly. She thanked the gods she’d seen it, which she would not have had she not fallen. Although she was glad to see it, Olive was ever cautious, and crept towards the light very slowly.

When she finally got close enough to see, she realized that the light was coming from the entrance to a cave. Olive swore, something too rude to be repeated. Caves were the worst place in which to fight, especially if ones opponent knew the cave better than oneself. But Olive inched forward still, and rolled under a bush. In this position, she could see the cave, but whatever or whomever was in it could not see her. Besides these advantages, her back was guarded by the overgrown shrubbery, so no one could sneak up behind her.

Olive lay on her stomach, and watched the cave for signs of movement. She had been there for awhile before she realized there was no rain or wind here. The storm was defiantly the work of a Mystic.

Suddenly a child’s cry came from the cave, followed by a deep, guttural voice yelling at it in a language she did not understand. This was followed by a screech, and wild crying. A sharp slap resounded through the cave, then everything went quiet.

Olive clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. Had the child just been hit? Yes, it seemed walking cautiously towards the entrance of the cave.

As she touched it’s wall, she bit back a yelp; it was hot, almost scalding! But Olive had no choice, she’d be seen if she did not stay close to the wall, so she pressed her back to it, and gingerly made her way through the cave. As eh got closer, the light enveloped her surrounding, leaving Olive little protection from being seen. Looking around a bend in the path, she saw that it opened up, and that a sky fast growing darker with the coming of night, could be seen.

The light came from a great fire in the center of the room, and around this was a group of ill dressed men and a couple of women. Seated on a rock close to a very solid looking man, was the small child. The tiny thing was crying silently, one side of her face cupped in a hand whose finegers seemed unimaginably breakable at that moment.

Olive, who as not calm by nature, allowed her resolve to slip, and, in her anger, did what was perhaps the stupidest action to which she had ever committed herself. She unsheathed her sword, and walked stoically into the center of the group.

A startled man yelled, and the rest of the people looked at her. Olive spoke, loud and clear, surprised at her own courage

"I will fight your strongest warrior." she said "In exchange for the life of that child. If I loose, you may kill me, if I win, I kill your fighter, and the rest of you let me leave peacefully."

The man standing next to the child spoke, his words marred bya thick accent unused to speaking in her language.

"Noramlly I would not consider such a proposition." He said, and though it appeared he was refusing her, a thoughtful expression dominated his face. "However, I am willing to allow it this once- we have had little amusemant over the past months, and would welcoem the opportunity to be entertained."

With that, he stepped back, revealing a strongly muscled man, wearing a long cape and breaches with a tattered, but none the less silk, shirt.

"Our msot skilled fighter" he said, and there was no missing the amusement in his voice.

Olive shook her head, fear a tight fist in her chest. "I cannot fight a Mystic" she said, for it was the simple truth- she had no magic, nothing save the sword she held in her hand.

"Either fight him, or die now" said the big man, and as Olive threw a glance behind her she saw that the exit from the cave was barred by man and women, who, though they were not armed with weapons so fine as hers, still brandished objects that could cause her much harm.

"Dammit" she swore under her breath, then, turning back to face her opponent, she said "Alright, I will fight, but let it be known that the raider tribes of Urethra are cheaters and liars, who would take advantage of the position of one who lacks power, so they can triumph." She said, fully aware that she was the only person there who was even affected by these words, and that none of those surrounding her would care to remember them once she died.

A bolt of lightning came whizzing past her ear. Olive yelped and jumped out of the way just as another hit the ground where she had been standing. Quickly she held up her sword and swung, hitting the next bolt straight back at the Mystic, who was leering at her. It caught him by surprise, and left a nasty looking burn on his cheek.

Ah, so he’s not using fully powerful bolts yet she thought to herself, and hit another bolt, which whizzed back, just barely missing the Mystic’s eye. A fifth bolt came, followed swiftly by another. Olive hit the fifth back, but the sixth hit her in the leg, just the still painful cut on her leg. She winced in pain as she felt her unprotected skin burn. The Mystic laughed- it was cruel, but not altogether ugly. In faft, his laughter sounded almost musical.

Bolts of lightening flew all around her, and Olive hit at them again and again, until suddenly she felt a sharp pang in her ankle and looked down to see a serpent extracting its fangs from her leg. Olive saw in horror the poison markings on it’s back, and looked at the Mystic. His face was twisted and ugly, but he was happy, laughing maniacally, as the serpent unwound itself from her leg, and slithered over to him, dissappearing as it moved.

Olive’s leg began to burn, and she felt dizzy and sick, but her life and the life of a child depended on her will to keep on fighting. ‘Help will come soon’ thought her half delirious mind, but the better half sullenly reminded her that no one knew she had left.

Thoughts of Richard and Jacob stained her mind, and though she attempted to recall specific events with them, all she could conjure up were portraits of their faces, which burned themselves into her eyes, until they were all that she could see.

Olive fell on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. She had to live. Who would raise Jacob? What would become of Richard? And the small girl-child would die too, along side Olive perhaps. No, she had to get up, she could not lie down as her brain was begging her to do.

Olive tried to stand, but a wave of fatigue swept over her, and she stumbled. she grabbed the hilt of her sword and pulled herself up on it, just in time to receive a shock of lightening so powerful that it glowed in the chest.

The raiders and the mystic laughed as her body crumpled and fell to the ground, as she breathed a final breath, and as her heart beat one last time. Then, as their laughter quieted, the sound of hooves was very apparent.

The troops of Mistapolt had arrived, albeit too late to save one of their own. With them was Olive’s lover, Richard, who was one of the higher knights , and her sister ,Edie, who was an officer. They charged into the cave, and the raiders and Mystic fled, as they were greatly outnumbered, and although the Mystic could have perhaps killed some of them, an entire army was too much of a strain on his power.

Richard jumped off his horse when he saw Olives body lying on the ground. He ran over to it, and placed his ear to her heart. No steady beat reassured him of her life- she was gone. He fought hard to hold back tears, and a strangled moan came from his lips as he hid his face in her shoulder. Edie, seeing her brother in law’s reaction, lowered her head, and closed her eyes in sorrow.

~

The burning boast was cast into the water in the dull moonless night. Richard stood by the water’s edge, their son, Jacob, clinging to his neck. Too young to understand what was happening, the child cried loudly.

The magistrate had declared that Olive’s death was noble, and her willful disregard for orders was forgotten. Now, as Richard looked around at the assemblage who watched the ceremony, he was struck with an anger that he could not explain. He had never understood Olive’s need for justice, and still resented her abandonment of himself and their son. How could she have saved the life of a child when she knew that it would mean abandoning her own?