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The air was still and the hillside seemed deserted. Only the bleak cry of circling crows broke the silence. Then a gentler sound: the jangle of reins, the soft clip-clop of hooves and a high pitched whinny. The horse emerged from the trees below, and a knight, clad in chain mail and a bloodied tunic, slid wearily from the saddle. He hooked his arm around the horse's neck, tangling fingers in its mane and leaning his forehead against its soft head. Then he straightened abruptly, leading the beast to face downhill. “Home,” he commanded, stepping backwards and tapping the grey's sweat-stained rump.
Another soft whinny and the knight watched as his steed picked her way carefully down the uneven path, eventually disappearing into a cluster of bare, twisted hawthorns.
Turning with a sigh, he started on the steep path up the mountain, placing his feet carefully amongst the tangle of bilberry and heather. He walked at a steady pace, pausing only at a junction of ways, where he glanced briefly downwards towards the grey-green meadows of the now distant valley bottom. As he climbed higher, the way became steeper and rockier, and his steps grew slower, his breathing more harsh. The sky was darkening as he crossed the snowline, and turning for one last time, he looked back at the panorama of hills and valleys below before setting himself resolutely into the icy wind and cloud. He gained more height and stopped, leaning heavily on his sword. Violent shivers wracked his inadequately clad body and he closed his eyes.
Concealed a little way off the path, the watcher’s heart sank as he witnessed the knight’s distress. He silently willed the climber on, until, at last, the knight opened his eyes, and continued his grim ascent. A set of footprints led upwards and the knight began to use these to help his progress, but, even so, the watcher could see the knight’s left arm now hanging limp, and the crisp white snow behind him splattered with dark crimson. Fresh snow began to fall and amongst the flurry of flakes the trudging figure became obscure and faint, eventually disappearing completely into the thickening cloud.
“But where…” The watcher peered frantically into the mist: he must not, could not, lose sight of the knight. The wind had stilled and a soft sound made him turn. There, poised in the lee of an outcrop of rock stood a mountain hare, all mottled fur, soft ears and bulging, startled eyes. It darted off to the left and the watcher followed through the whirling cloud and flakes until suddenly he stumbled over a pair of bloodstained, leather clad feet. Slumped against a tumbledown slate wall, lay the knight. A couple more steps and the watcher bent towards the unmoving body.
The knight’s eyes suddenly opened and the watcher flinched as ice-cold, gauntleted hands clamped around his upper arms. Unable to move, he stared into unseeing deep-brown irises, and then the eyes widened in fear, and disappeared: beyond the sockets was only the cold, empty vastness of space. The watcher screamed. The hands, with their vice-like grip, did not let go.
“Blake,” said an exasperated voice.
He dragged himself from sleep, and now found himself looking instead into worry-worn pale blue eyes.
“A nightmare,” Deva was saying, shaking him by the arms, but even this, from the steadiest of men, couldn't drag him from the feeling of utter horror and despair brought on by the dream. Blake threw himself across the room and the contents of his stomach emptied into Deva's waste paper basket. God help whoever's on recycling duty, thought Blake, though he couldn't stop his hands trembling as they clung to the edge of the bin.
“That bad, eh?” asked Deva, touching his shoulder and gently removing the container.
Blake leaned back against the wall with his eyes closed. “Sorry,” he said after a while. Another long pause. “That strategy talk that you’ve been wanting for so long. First thing tomorrow.” He rubbed his face with a hand. “And then I think we might need to send out a coded message.”
“Good man.” Another hesitant pat on his shoulder and the sound of retreating footsteps as Deva, and his bin, left the room.
Not loud enough, thought Blake, to drown out the jangle of reins, the patter of the hare’s feet or the expression of despair in the beloved face of his loyal, dying knight.
