The adventure of Shadowrider, Champion of the Three Villages, continues…
He clutched his sword uneasily to his chest as he sat, watching. His fire radiated a meager light in the evening chill, and he shivered in spite of himself. Though tired, his eyes scanned the forest endlessly with a piercing gaze. He would not tire. He would not be distracted. He was Shadowrider, Champion of the Three Villages, and wielder of the dread blade, Bunniesbane. His duty was vigilance. His duty was patience. His was the way of the warrior, the watchman, and occasionally the doorman.
Shadowrider squinted under his gleaming helm as he tried to recall the events that led to his position as watchman and protector of the north gate. When had his descent from warrior-general begun? Was it during the initial skirmishes of the campaigns of eastern Europe? Was it the invasion of Greenland by their Icelandic cousins? Or perhaps it was the siege of Siam.
Yes, that was it: the siege of Siam. Shadowrider exhaled a pained breath as memory flooded back to him. On the fields of battle, his army of twenty units faced the twelve units of the Siamese army. The gods favoured an easy win, he had thought, but fate, like an unlucky roll of the dice, had dealt an ugly blow. Shadowrider’s army was decimated in the attack. After sounding the retreat, there remained only himself and a Scottish terrier named Bill. He hated Scottish terriers.
Now his duties were simple: guard the north gate against attack from the brigands in the forest. Rumour held that they were becoming organized and more dangerous.
It was odd, thought Shadowrider, that the king had stationed him outside the gate, rather than on the inside with the other warriors. As Shadowrider prodded the fire contemplatively, there was a noise — the snapping of a twig underfoot. He froze and gazed over his campfire, out into the woods.
“Who’s there?” a voice called from his left, just beyond the edge of the campfire’s dancing light.
“Nay, answer me,” demanded Shadowrider, as he stood with Bunniesbane at the ready. “Stand and unfold yourself!”
“That,” said the voice, “would be impolite. Long live the king.”
“Tim?” A figure emerged from the woods and Shadowrider relaxed at the sight of him. It was Tim, his trusted brother-in-arms and dresser-of-hair. In fact, Tim was quite popular in court these days and had been responsible for the king’s gigantic bouffante on his last birthday.
“How’s the watch, Stan?” asked Tim, as he strode confidently into the circle of firelight.
Shadowrider relaxed and lowered his blade. “What brings you to the north wall?”
“Oh, just thinking that you might feel like a sip or two of meade to warm you up.” Tim settled down by the fire, resting a little cloth bag by his side.
“That’s very kind of you, Tim,” said Shadowrider, moving nearer to the light. “But I really wish you wouldn’t call me Stan.”
Tim looked at him askance. “Oh, that’s right. You’re all mister shadowy warrior guy now, always on the lookout for danger.” Tim rummaged in his bag and pulled out a lute. “A little music?”
“Look, Tim. I’ve got a job to do. Or have you forgotten?” For a moment, it looked as if Tim were suppressing a cough as he began plucking a simple tune on his lute. “I,” Shadowrider began, with careful emphasis, “am Shadowrider Quicksword, Champion of the Three Villages, and the one known as Blademaster.”
Tim’s tune was interrupted for a moment, as he suppressed another cough, but Shadowrider pressed on, “I am First Champion of Lord Reortor, son of Reorthus. And really good friend of his daughter, Betty.” He leaned closer to Tim, and in a low voice, said, “And I’ve even visited her castle… if you know what I mean.”
Tim stopped playing. “No,” said Tim, frowning, “I don’t think I do know what you mean.”
“Oh, for—,” sputtered Shadowrider. “I visited her castle. You know…” He trailed off, punctuating the sentence with a gesture.
Understanding brightened Tim’s face. “Oohhhhh. You mean you forded the moat. Smote her dragon. Grappled her battlements.”
“Um,” said Shadowrider after a pause. “Well, no. I didn’t get around to the grappling part.”
“You didn’t grapple her battlements?”
Shadowrider shook his head.
“Did you ford the moat?”
He shook his his head again.
Tim sighed, “And the dragon-smoting…?”
Shadowrider lowered his gaze dejectedly.
“So when you say that you ‘visited her castle’,” Tim prodded, “what exactly do you mean?”
“I mean,” elaborated Shadowrider bashfully, “that I… uh… visited… uh… I visited her castle.” Tim stared back at him. “Okay, fine. We played cribbage once. Until dinnertime. And then they asked me to watch the door for them while they ate.”
“Were they expecting trouble?”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly clear on that part. It turned out to be pretty… um… quiet.”
“Oh,” commented Tim. He opened the little cloth bag again and withdrew a small object wrapped in cloth. “Salt cod?” he offered, but Shadowrider declined.
“It’s a difficult life, being a hero.” Shadowrider absently drew spirals in the dirt with the tip of Bunniesbane.
Tim munched thoughtfully on his fish. After a moment, he pulled a wineskin from the sack. He opened the cap and took a swig before offering it to Shadowrider. “Would you like some meade? It might make you feel better.”
“Thanks, Tim, but I’m on duty.”
“Are you sure? It’s wildberry.” Tim gave the wineskin a little enticing shake.
“Well,” said Shadowrider, “it has been pretty quiet recently. And besides, Bill is on duty, over at the south wall, so I could take a bit of a break.” He pictured Bill at his post, with his eyes gazing intently into the darkness, ever watchful, and his tail wagging spasmodically from the excitement of it all. Bloody terriers.
Shadowrider accepted the wineskin and took a deep draught, while Tim opened the little sack again and rummaged briefly before looking up with a grin. “Well don’t look so glum, Mister Quicksword, because I’ve got a surprise for you.”
To Shadowrider’s astonishment, Tim withdrew a large, flat, rectangular box and placed it on a rock nearby. Shadowrider eyed the bag.
“Is that a Bag of Holding, Tim?” he asked.
“Yep!” Tim answered cheerfully, before turning his attention back to the rectangular box. “What would you say to a game of RISK?”
Shadowrider grinned. “You’re on. US rules, supply lines?”
Tim heaved an exasperated sigh. “Supply lines suck, you wuss.” Tim unfolded the game board.
“Whatever. I get the black pieces then,” said Shadowrider, as he sheathed Bunniesbane. Battle would soon commence.