Ultimatium

They stood in the middle of a glade surrounded by thick wood, inpenetrably dark. The full moon illuminated the glade with a soft, eery glow. Ankle high white grass swayed softly, silently. Although the night was crisp, beads of perspiration formed upon the brow of both figures as they stared at the other, unerring in their concentration.

Their strength was failing: Sweat-laden hair fell across their eyes and their swords felt like they were forged from lead. Pride, arrogance and a life-long rivalry drove them onwards. Words were of no use, they would not lead any man to surrender, they were simply a waste of desperately precious energy.

Sensing the need to finish the duel as quickly as possible, before exhaustion bested them both, the smaller boy made a half-hearted lunge forward. It was not designed to be a winning maneouver, but it forced his opponent to make the effort of deflecting it.

The smaller boy came with another thrust, towards the left armpit of his opponent, it was parried with relative ease but succeeded in driving his larger opponent into a backward motion. The third movement of the combination was a feint to his opponent's sword hand before stepping back around and executing a backhand strike to the unprotected right rib cage. Just as the smaller boy glimpsed victory, with his blade closing in on the unbalanced body of his opponent, he found himself in mid-air and then crashing onto the soft grass.

He looked up at the larger boy standing above him, sword pressing gently against his throat. Between laboured breaths, the larger boy spoke softly.

"Nice move...nearly...had me...Dante."

The larger boy had predicted the feint and instead of stepping back, came forward and took Dante's legs from under him before he could land the blow. He let the wooden training sword fall to the grass and offered his hand to bring Dante to his feet. But the smaller boy pulled his victorious opponent with every inch of remaining strength and soon the pair lay laughing together on the glade floor.

"You know, Dante, you're definitely getting better. A couple more minutes and you could have had me. You just have to be more patient. Wear down the bigger men then you can manipulate them at your will."

Dante thought about it and agreed. Underneath the smile that masked his twelve year old face was disappointment and frustration. He had never beaten his friend, who was older and bigger, but he was so close and it ate away at him constantly.

"Who said I was even trying?" said Dante, his arrogance beginning to come to the front.

The larger boy laughed a weak, exhausted laugh, but with genuine humour.

"Well little buddy, it's late. We spent too long out here. You'd better get back home. Take these." The larger boy handed Dante the two wooden training swords. "I had better get my longbow and see if I can bring down a few stags before it gets too dark, otherwise, we won't be eating tomorrow. You'll be alright by yourself, you little warrior? Right!"

Dante took the two swords and struck a dramatic fighting pose, "Of course I will be, brave hunter." he replied mockingly.

The pair, now on their feet and preparing to move off extended their right arms and gripped the other's forearm while holding their left fist to their heart in a customary show of respect and wishing of luck.

"Fare you well, Dante."

"Fare you well, Grey."

With that, they turned, Dante towards home and Grey towards the woods on the other end of the glade, each to a very different, but equally extraordinary fate.



Dante looked out the flap of his hut, waiting for the familiar figure of Grey to return from his hunt. His friend was 16 and considered to be a man of the tribe, but Dante still worried about him out there alone and often stayed up until his return at which time he could sleep easier.

The elder men gathered around the campfire in silence, their gazes fixed at the sky, searching for guidance from their ancestors as was ritual before retiring to sleep. The crackling flames cast a soft orange glow which was usually soothing upon the village, but tonight...was different.

Dante felt a wave of uneasiness come over him like a breeze of icy knives and he shuddered. The moon was full and now high overhead, the sky was clear and the stars were bright, millions of pinpricks of light in a sea of black.

From the distance, across the valley and over the hills came a sound, Dante froze. The campsite seemed to tense and the breeze of uneasiness quickly changed to blizzard force. For long minutes there was only silence. As the young boy began to relax once again, the sound repeated; a distant boom like a clap of thunder.

A short time passed once again before the noise was heard, closer this time. Dante looked to the sky and saw black shapes coming to cover the moon, clouds came from the sea at an impossible rate and soon the clear night was overtaken by darkness from above and the booming continued, ever closer and quickening in beat. Drums.

A flash of lightning pierced the sky and Dante saw the faces of the elders no longer covered in orange and shadow, but in a brilliant white light, and their faces carried masks of horror, their bodies not moving.

Dante found himself, although terrified, inching out of his tent and instinctively looking for a weapon. A light rain began to fall, cold and every drop bringing with it a feeling of hopeless despair. It beat down harder and faster, matching the beat of drums that echoed around the valley.

A flash of lightning gave Dante a view of the valley and he saw nothing, a moment later another flash of lightning and he saw an image that caused him to stumble to the ground. At the top of the hill, just a hundred yards from the village were countless figures on horseback, clad in black and surrounded by an aura of misery and despair that lit up the valleyl with an unearthly glow. Dante saw the gleam of sword and spear and the red eyes of their mounts. They were spoke of in legends with hushed whispers, as if the very mention of their name would be to invite death.

The beating of the drums was now quick and painfully loud, The rain was chilling and stinging. Above all of this came warcries, painful to hear, and the beating of thousands of hooves.

Dante raised his eyes once again. The flames of the campfire were nearly extinguished and still the elders didn't move, seemingly resigned to their black fate. All of a sudden the drums stopped and Dante drew a deep breath...then his world exploded around him.

The first wave of horsemen hit the campfire like a tornado, with swift, crisp blows Dante watched as the headless figures of the village elders fell lifelessly to the ground amidst crimson spray. Torches were thrown onto the huts and suddenly screams filled the night. Women and children stumbled out of their homes, a mixture of terror and disbelief etched on their faces as they were quickly chased down and executed.

All Dante could do was watch in horror. His family's corpses covered the blood-soaked grass. A scream from his right snapped his attention with its familiarity. He turned to see his mother charging towards him, her words drowned out by the pounding of hooves. A horseman appeared behind her, and closed the distance with a few strides from his mount. Dante screamed and sprinted towards his mother, trying desperately to warn her, but it was no use. With one motion from the horseman her head was taken from her shoulders uncerimonously and Dante collapsed with hopelessness just in time to duck a strike from the man.

As the young boy lay on the ground, quivering with fear and convulsing with tears, ready to accept death, the screaming stopped, the rain ceased and hooves began to retreat. Dante looked up, his village burning around him, but not a living soul within it barring himself. Through tear-filled eyes he saw the horseman invaders congregated on the hill in their lines. Without thought, not wanting to live when his world had died, he walked purposely to his hut, took his wooden training sword and began a half-run, half-stumble towards the group of black men.

The sky was once again clear above his head and silence had returned. As he approached the lines of mounted men, he saw a massive figure with a black horse plume attached to his helm stand in front of them and drive a black spear into the ground, instantly Dante recognised the man as the leader. The disfigured head upon the spear head was the chief of the village.

Dante neared the leader and let out a choked cry. The man turned and laughed without humour. With blinding quickness he drew his sword and deflected the young boy's strike, causing him to fall to the wet grass. Dante waited for the killing blow, but heard a deep voice speak a tongue that was both foreign and painful to hear, the lines parted and a man stepped forward. With one hand he gripped Dante's bare arm and pulled him to his feet.

The sword strike was high and swift, designed to decapitate Dante, whose instincts took over. He ducked under it and readied his sword for a strike of his own. His sword was ripped from his hands by the leader who had moved behind him. Dante turned around and looked at the other man and his eyes widened. Before the man took him through the heart, the young boy managed to speak one word...

"Father?"