The Path

The Pathway of becoming and unbecoming...

        "You waste my time, boy," he grated. "Why do you follow me?"

        Avis's lips went dry. He would die either way now: following the mysterious man or returning to the dreadful castle. Subsequently, he unconsciously mouthed the word death for the fear of the path fate had chosen. His eyes turned downcast. His last hope of life, a peaceful normal life flickered out like a candle before his eyes.

        Apparently aware of the message, the rider gently bent down off his horse and silently withdrew his knife causing Avis's eyes to incline with the man's dark eyes. 

        "Now-," still speaking in the soft tone he had used. "-Who will you be?"

        Avis, bewildered by the unforeseen interrogation, instinctively recoiled back a few steps. Afterwards, staring into cold stare of the man, he unwillingly spoke. 

        "Avis." Avis answered in a squeaking voice. "Son of Sequoias and Ara of-"

        He was cut off by a crushing pain and collapsed onto the ground, unexpectedly still solid with dirt even in the flood. Avis eyes flickered with anger, fear, regret, or surprise or all four as his eyes were indecipherable in the drenched sunlight. The murderer had pivoted his knee down into his, naturally causing a lot of pain. The old man released his grip and waited patiently for Avis to stagger up. Avis glanced at the man, expecting the man to kill him any instant. 

        "Why-" Avis began. Unfortunately, the man interrupted him again. 

        "-Did I silence you? I simply need a name I can call you by, boy. I certainly do not want you babbling about your precious family, which wastes much my time. Now that I know your name, I will repeat my first question: Why do you follow me Avis?"

        His harsh tone and his tremendously potent knife taught Avis to answer his question swiftly and truthfully. So it began, for the next few moments, Avis blurted out all about the predicted death sentence for Avis and that he had cautiously followed the rider to escape the tainted land. 

        The old man nodded thoughtfully. The boy's story, Avis's story he corrected himself, had explained the utmost pain in his eyes when he had threatened him with his weapon and that also explained the reason Avis had followed him. He made his decision. 

        "I shall spare you, boy. I do not know one thing: What did you do at the Cursed Tower of Absalom?"

        Avis's hopes were ignited by the surprising response from the man, and he replied instantly.

        "A servant, a slave.....Sir-your excellency. I was captured by-by a group of slave traders or bandits at the Sylvan Hill." Sylvan Hill was a famous monument near Geneva and was well known throughout the North. Will you take me to Sylvan Hill?"

        His tone was an utmost desperate one. If he could find his family, and if he could find them......If he could do...... Avis's hope was almost instantly blown away by a small curt shake of the head.

        "Most certainly not. The whole hill and the village near it were destroyed by......" The old man slightly hesitated and began again almost immediately so it seemed as if nothing had ever happened before. "A tremendous fire burnt the land to crisp and any living thing would have died. Even if they survived the flames the smoke would kill them. After another brief hesitation he spoke again. This time it was almost a whisper. "Did you know of......The incident boy?"

        "No......my-my family near there......Now-now I am an orphan. Without parents. Without family. Without......Everything."

        The last word was followed by a burst of tears, not believing after all those years his family had withered and died and he, Avis had not been there to see them. While Avis was in a world of sadness the old man's face was inscrutable yet in the inside he was recalling a rumor spoken by an elderly woman by Shepherd's Cottage......

        A yell broke the silence like the moon appearing in the pitch black sky. The shout seemed to awaken Avis from the world of sadness and misery. He stood up, looking warily into the shadow, expecting a bandit to burst out from every side. 

        The murderer whirled around just in time to block a sword sword stroke from another veiled one. The surprised warrior sprang back a few steps and delivered a firm blow toward the old man's heart. A killing stroke. The old man's amazingly blocked the strike and immediately switched from defense to attack, whirling blows that seemed to be multiple blows in one attack. 

        The faltering warrior's face showed surprise then concentration as sweat beaded down his face. His desperate strokes were gradually loosing power as the seemingly weak and withered man pressed hard into the opponents defense, causing scratches then deep wounds to appear on the hopeless warrior. 

        Abruptly, multiple shouts and sounds of clanking armor alerted the old man. Knowing reinforcements were coming, he sent a rapid blow with his blade. As the warrior deliberately positioned his own sword to deflect it, the old man instantaneously switched to a deadly stroke aiming toward the warrior's desperate beating heart.

        The blade flashed in the dawn's new arrival as the crestfallen swordsman collapsed, dead on the ground with a soft thud.