Archangels of the Sword, Red Knyght Rising, Volume 2, by Jacob Malewitz, Hong Kong 2, 250trill a page

Let me tell you what chaos is. Chaos is the absence of God. We all hear stories of magic and chaos, demons from the other side playing with men like toys. It has happened throughout history.

I thought hard on chaos being the absence of God, a line my father instilled in me many times in the past. As I thought of this, I approached Francis’ room in our castle. Being a Welsh bowman in the Norman empire be a rich trade, as archers talented with the long bow are in high demand. They can shatter legions of charging knyghts with the flick of their wrists. The long bow is the strongest weapon here in Europa. Saying that, I had heard stories of different kinds of weapons in the Yin empire.

But let me tell you about this bowman, and I will relate my thoughts on sorcery at a later point. Francis was a man of Christian blood who would have followed my father into the gates of hell. He would face just about anything save the pope if my father desired it. Ever since my mother’s death, he had been the strength in my father’s life. A religious man with plenty of principles, but it was his high-ranking with the Welsh that was most important to my father, as he related to many on countless occasions. Still, I had the feeling there be more to this Welshman; I sensed a desire for power underneath the façade of the good, caring heart he was said to walk under.

Whether he was evil or good, I would need him on this journey because he was the best bowman in all of Europa.

            He had always looked different than the average soldier. The lines around his eyes made it appear he had been put on night-duty since birth; I had never seen youth in his face all my life. I also had noted his fingers were covered with callases every time I met him, and I assumed this was the result from firing his long bow. He could be leader of an empire in Brittania, or carve out something in Italia, but he stayed loyal to my father. Why?

If it had been my choice, my father’s small empire would have been turned over to him. But it wasn’t. I realized that which all children of great men had to face: The turning over of power and responsibilities. For me there would be no more summer nights dancing to the chorus of music: All boys turned to men.

            I found Francis wasn’t in his room. I traveled the halls of the castle, peering out windows, trying to find him. When I did find him, he was busy being captivated by the crafting of a bow. I had never known him to be interested in this process – which was something that intrigued me as well – but when he saw me, he took his eyes away and nodded.

“Me Lord, you look troubled.”

I explained the letter in the best way I could.

“We cannot tell everyone of this. The only reason they haven’t attacked us is they fear his reprisals. I will never be the general my father was, Francis. We are his only chance.”

Was I acting? Did I really trust this man?

We walked. I was trying to make sense of the situation. As I looked over the clothes he wore, I tried to pinpoint the reason my father had kept such a power close to his side. Was this the old adage, “Keep your enemies even closer?” Just the way he dressed was odd. Wasn’t the usual fare for a warrior: It seemed pulled together from too many empires to count, as though Francis had pushed the boundaries of Europa countless times. The cloak was akin to something from Rome, red with blue lines, imperial would be the best word. His helmet was to cheap for him: The basic Norman piece that shielded the top of the head and the nose; it made me think it had some other value to it. Alas, what he wore didn’t tell me what I wanted to know.

I stopped short of telling him all the grim details of the letter. I sensed that we would need more than the ordinary, valiant attempts of a few to save my father. Perhaps our only chance was an act of God.

We would have to travel a long ways. The Yin empire was outside of my experience. There had been stories of travelers there, and of a tribe called the Mongols who were always on the verge of destroying them, but as many tales that were told of success in the travels were of death. I didn’t know whom this man Jonathan Dunn be, either.

            “A trader,” said Francis, “one your father went on many adventures with. I don’t believe they have spoken in decades.”

            “That doesn’t make sense. There must be more to this man.”

            “Wait. He does speak Yin. He is a Dutchman. He would take ships there with your father back when I was part of the Norman honor guard.”

            We stopped walking. I was trying to piece it all together. I thought of all the visions I had of the Green Knyght: Was it a warning of some kind? Or was I losing my mind?

“We need another opinion. I have heard things about the Yin empire. It may be best to bring someone with an understanding.”

“I have just the fellow, me lord.”

Chapter 2: Bringing Thunder

… I look up at the fiery eyes of the green knyght in the painting. Something changes: the clouds move, the walls of order are broken. I feel I am falling yet I cannot understand why. It’s as though I am being punished for something outside of my scope.

I had thought that Francis was a devoutly Christian man: I had always seen him reading scripted bibles after all. But when he said we needed a Druid for this journey I was more than a little surprised. Bringing a priest on a journey is one thing, bringing a druid into any affair is in my experience quite another. “Trust me, lord, he will be the key to finding your father.” I didn’t want to know much more, but, of course, I had to hear the whole story.