The Riders

Morning dawned grey on the hillside of Ahrman, deep in Longwit Forest. Wind-driven mist swirled in thick fog that devoured everything beyond a stone’s throw. Against the uphill side of a birch tree laid a young dwarf, asleep in the mud, still clutching his battle-axe. He woke with a start.

Geverson jumped to his feet and stood still, looking, listening. There was nothing. Only trees evaporating into fog, and the sound of the November wind rushing through bare branches. There was nothing, but Geverson knew his danger. He took off, scurrying across the muddy slope to regain the northwest trail.

Finding the trail at last, he broke into a run. His pursuers had to be close behind. Most of the night he had fought them at every turn, losing them for only an hour before he stopped to rest. Now, running along the northwest trail, lungs burning and limbs sore, Geverson knew if he could make it a little further, he could signal his friends. They were waiting for him, or at least he hoped they were.

Then hope gave way to despair. A familiar stench stung his nose, and a dark form materialized from the fog. A kobold blocked the trail, flexing its fingers on the shaft of its halberd. Its bearing was that of a fierce warrior, and its sunken yellow eyes glared eagerly at Geverson.

Geverson skidded in the mud, backpedaling a few steps to keep from falling. He found his footing and hefted his axe.

The kobold charged, swinging high as if chopping wood. Geverson’s stepped into the swing, and with an upward backhand blow, splintered the halberd's shaft as it came down. The force knocked the weapon from the kobolds grip, and the kobold spun away, drawing its sword.

Geverson gave an eager smile. "Come, you mange-ridden bastard! Come to your slaughter!"

Kobold and dwarf both charged. Geverson easily deflected the kobold’s blow, then spun to the side and planted his boot into the side of the kobold's knee. The kobold dropped, but so did Geverson, having slipped in the mud.

The kobold was quicker to its feet, and it set upon the still-prone Geverson. Geverson rolled and parried. The kobold's sword glanced off of Geverson's arm plate and stuck in the mud. It was only a half-second delay, but it was enough. Bringing his axe around with his roll, Geverson severed the kobold's hand at the wrist. The kobold shrieked and stumbled backward. Now Geverson had the advantage, and the severely wounded, unarmed kobold was no match for him.

Geverson stood for a moment over the headless kobold, trying to catch his breath. He had to move quickly, for the rest of the evil brood was coming. Off again, down the path he sprang.

It was not long before Geverson had to slow to a walk. The kobolds were closing in when another kobold scout emerged from the fog to block the trail ahead. Fatigued, outnumbered and surrounded, Geverson knew that he would not survive this battle.

The sound of hoof falls approaching from up the trail added bewilderment to his low spirits. Kobolds didn’t ride horses. Neither did his companions. So who was coming?

The scout seemed content to wait for his brethren, but the unknown riders were upon him, and the kobold turned to see who was coming.

Three warhorses thundered from the fog. The kobold turned to flee, but it was too late. The point rider whirled his heavy mace, and with crushing momentum and bright flash swept the kobold from the trail.

Geverson watched in awe as the three horses dashed passed. Though they were men, they were exceptionally noble men that exuded a power and serenity that soothed his soul. They wore full armor and white cloaks, and everything that was not metal or flesh was brilliant white. Their standard was a blue swirl that seemed to somehow radiate its own light, standing bold against a field of pure white.

In a second they were gone, swallowed once again by the fog. Geverson listened. There was the sound of battle as the thundering horsemen plowed into the band of kobolds. It lasted only a few seconds. Then the distant hoof falls faded into the whirling wind. All was calm.

“Who were those men?” Geverson wondered. “They must have had an urgent mission, brushing aside the kobolds like a mere nuisance, like cobwebs in a doorway. Clearly they didn’t come for me.”

He dropped his gaze in contemplation, and then stopped, frozen in wonderment. Not a single hoof print stood in the mud. There was, however a single medallion lying near his foot.

Geverson wasn’t sure what to do, so he did the only thing that made sense. He took the medallion, and once he was certain the kobolds were not coming, he resumed his course up the trail.

Geverson eventually found his friends, and made it safely home. He kept the story of the white riders to himself, uncertain what to make of it. Months later, upon hearing the legend of the white riders, Geverson understood the encounter, and understood the significance of the medallion. He knew what he must do, and he resolved to do it…

To be continued.