Steel clattered upon brass as a symphonic gale of wind swept across the battlefield and brought stillness to the clearing.
Armour whistling with resonance Mikhael the Tuba knight removed his bell helmet and wiped the dirt and from his bleary eyes. An arrow, deeply embedded into his shoulder, caused his movements to be wrapped within an etching of pain that rattled agony across his side.
‘You think me a common flautist! You think I bend like crumpled reeds of the follied wind? Ha, you expect too little of my order you blaggard.’
Placing her cellongbow to the ground the archer held her hands outward, seven violinists all with bows trained at the wounded knight stood behind her. ‘Good sir knight,’ her voice remained middled as she began to walk toward Mikhael, ‘We’ve not properly introduced, I am Courante of the Bowed strings and these lands now belong to my order; I wish you only apology,’ tossing a dagger down to her feet the archer gently kicked the blade toward Mikhael, gesturing for him to take it up.
‘A dagger? What’s this, you ask me to hold a requiem with a toothpick?’
‘No sir knight, I give you this as a mercy.’ Looking into Mikheal’s eyes Courante drew inward, there was a tiredness to her face, one that had seen a great many lands and all too much loss. ‘Take the blade my friend, one can do a great many things with an instrument such as this. You may take the knife in defeat, you may even choose to rise in misplaced duty and die like your order asks of you; Or–comrade–you may place the blade back in my hand and walk away still holding your life.’ Courante held her palm outward, the archer’s sad eyes holding no remorse for the wounded man before her.
Picking up the blade Mikheal cried out as the arrow in his shoulder shifted, grating against bone and sending flashes of searing pain across his entire body. A small rivulet of blood trickled down onto his wrist and pooled onto the handle of the dagger: the knife was thin, almost like a baton, it was simple, it was sharp.
Clenching his grip Mikhael pushed the pain deep into the back of his mind.
‘I am Mikheal Fugelson, Tuba knight and brassguard of the order of the Sousaphone. You trespass on our lands and stain the very soil with your thirst for power! Our orders could live in harmony, don’t you see that?’ Spitting in exasperation Mikhael rose and began to stagger forward, ‘You wish to orchestrate our lives, you exist as only yourselves; how can you not see that we can help you…we can live alongside you.’
‘Kill him,’ Courante turned her back and waved a disheartened gesture toward her bowmen, ‘kill him pianissimo.’
Steel clattered upon brass as seven arrows burrowed deeply into the dented armor of Mikhael.
Light momentarily flickering from his vision the proud tuba knight sunk to his knee and felt warmth slowly drain from his arms. Gasping for air he paused in bared rest and listened to the wind.
Faintly, much more quiet than even the dancing of the earth’s turn, he heard the bugle call of his order; they stood behind him, giants of sustain and powerful within even stilted melody. He saw their faces, his brothers and sisters, the beloved friends of his brass section, they all stood behind him and willed him to continue.
Courante looked to the wind, she watched it as it played with the bronze leaves of this forigen land. Sighing she began to walk toward her troop. ‘Goodbye sir knight, we shall not meet again.’
‘But we shall Courante, I wish to return your knife,’
Barreling forward with the last of his dying strength Mikhael leapt at the archers screaming as he clutched the small dagger in his hands, ready to smite even the gods themselves.
‘I shall waltz with you in hell my comrade.’
J.McCray
2020
Sunday Short Stories 