A lesson in justice - разказ на английски

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Bhaal
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Posts: 15
Joined: Mon Jul 04, 2011 6:09 pm

A lesson in justice - разказ на английски

Post by Bhaal » Mon Dec 17, 2012 3:58 am

Това ми е разказът, който трябваше да предам като assignment в университета. Всяка критика е добре дошла.

It was a summer day in the twenty-third year of King Edward III’s rule when a band of five warriors furiously rode out of Tonbridge Castle to Coldwaltham. It was Sir Ralph Stafford who led them and it was to the rescue of his young cousin Laila that they were riding. There were conditions that had to be met if she was to come back. The kidnappers wanted Sir Stafford to come and pay the ransom this night, with an escort of no more than four men. Any violation of the conditions would result in forever losing the girl.

It was a mystery who was so brave or foolish enough to hold a man like the First Earl of Stafford to ransom – a knight of the Order of Garter, a close and loyal man to King Edward and a brilliant military commander. No ordinary outlaw would be so bold as to extort one of the most powerful men in England. And this scared his squire, the twenty year old Alistair, but what made his heart beat like a hammer on an anvil was the fact that it was Laila who was captured. Laila, his dark-haired angel, he could marry once he achieved knighthood. For now this status, like his love, was just beyond the horizon.



Sir Stafford, clad in his set of plate mail armour and a jupon bearing his yellow and red coat of arms, sat on a fallen tree, his face stern while he smoked a pipe, his visored basinet lying in his feet. He had chosen this forest meadow for a brief rest before they continued through the night . He had brown hair with grey on the temples – he was in his forties, but looked youthful and was still strong and agile. “Alistair,” his voice was quiet, but commanding.
“My liege?” Alistair, clad in plate armour and a jupon as well, helm in arm, stood next to the five armoured destriers on the border of the meadow and the forest road. Tall, strong and black of hair, he was a spitting image of his father. He was statuesque in his patience, only the glances he cast so often to the road gave away how he ached to be on the move.
“Come and sit next to me, boy.”
Alistair gave one last glance to the road to his right and started walking towards his lord. His sabatons left a trail of crushed grass behind him.
“Fuck yer feet, boy, ye walk like a fuckin’ destrier,“ Howard, fair-haired, forty years old, quipped with a slight smile from the trees behind the noble. He was balancing a knife on the tip of his gloved finger, while leaning on a tall tree’s trunk. “Could’ve thrown this blade right between yer blue eyes without even watching, the bloody noise ye make is enough for me to take aim at ye.”
“While I’m wearing my basinet and you’re missing a right eye, Sir Howard?” Alistair knew the short man hated to be called “Sir”. Howard was Sir Stafford’s right hand man and had been knighted by him. He was humble, forever mindful of his beginnings and that put him at odds with his new title.
“Fuck yer Sir.” Howard chuckled and threw his knife upwards with the tip of his finger and caught the blade in his hand. “Ye’ll learn.”
Alistair had nothing but love and respect for Howard, who, together with Stafford, taught him in the way of combat and strategy. He wore a dark brown coat of plates, strapped with a belt for his many throwing knives and two swords behind his back.
“Any knight worth his steel would envy the Earl for having a squire like Alistair,” Sir Roldan said evenly. The hulking hazel-haired knight sat on the grass not far from the fallen tree, whetting his greatsword. “The boy would make an awesome knight. One of the greatest this Kingdom has seen.” “One of the loudest more like.”
There was a hint of smile on Roldan’s face. This was equivalent to other men roaring in laughter. He was a man epitomizing opposites – calm and expressive as a mountain in everyday life and a storm in battle.
Sir Carnell laughed from the corner opposite to the horses. “Shut your mouths and let Alistair listen to his lord in peace.” Carnell was Roldan’s younger brother, both of them in their thirties. He was hazel-haired like Roldan, though not as tall. He was jovial most of the time and serious when needed. The two brothers were loyal friends to Sir Stafford.
Alistair reached the fallen tree and sat facing his lord. Images of Laila being brutalized flashed through his mind. He managed to keep his face bland with effort.
“My boy,” The nobleman’s voice sounded fatherly. “Do you remember in this moment the one lesson I keep repeating ever since you were small?”
Alistair would’ve smiled if he found it possible. He didn’t. “To always be true and to trust myself.”
“Yes. Therein lies the knight’s honour. Without it, his life is worthless. The knight knows his true value and no matter how God, the Devil or men question and punish him, his honour remains resolute. This is what separates him from other men. He may risk his life, but never his honour no matter the perils he faces – and given the choice he would choose death over dishonour.”
Alistair was silent. “Why are you saying all of this?”
“Because after Dupplin Moor your dying father made me swear that I would see you become a knight. Remember the lesson, boy, remember it well.” The Earl thumped his pipe on the tree bark leaving ash behind and stood up. “We ride.”
The desperate ride began anew.
Alistair was pushing his destrier to its limits, his mind obsessed with the kidnapping like a rabid wolf after its prey. The squire knew it was no use in overthinking the situation, but he couldn’t stop himself. By the time he laid eyes on Coldwaltham Bridge there was not much of the turmoil he could feel. The incessant voice in Alistair’s head that prophesied a catastrophe was curiously silent and the fear and pain that came with it were reduced to a distant discomfort. Only an icy anger was left.

The squire was leading in the front; he had his visor up so his eyes could see everything. The forest path was quiet, covered in brushwood and undergrowth, the moon illuminating everything as brightly as before. Alistair thought the place would be serene, if it wasn’t for the threat of bloodshed lingering in the air.
The band was nearing the place for the exchange. They had left their horses back where the path began. It was all part of the kidnappers’ conditions.
Behind him Howard and Carnell were guarding Sir Stafford. Roldan loomed like a peak behind them all. The warriors were silent and alert as they made their way through moonlight, shadows and bush.
I’m coming Laila.
“There. The path leads to a clearing,” Alistair pointed to it. His step had become eerie.
“Boy, walk beside me. My face must be seen first as we walk in,” Sir Stafford ordered.
Alistair fell in next to his lord; Howard covering the squire’s left, his hands already next to the two daggers hanging from his belt on the waist.
The five men focused on what they could see through the opening as they neared. Dark grass and tall trees dispersed sparsely on a dark meadow.
Sir Stafford walked into the large meadow first. The others followed. Everybody turned their heads to the right. Sixty feet away was a giant oak, moonlight piercing its branches. Underneath its enormous trunk were six figures covered in shadow.
This is it. Alistair lowered his visor.
The band approached, and as the distance became shorter... There she was!
“Halt!” One of the figures cried. “No further!”
The band stopped, fifteen feet away from the kidnappers. Alistair could see them clearly now. They all wore heavy armour, with weapons befitting a knight. They were men in their thirties probably, rough looking and strong.
There was one, who was taller than them all, wearing a dark cloak, hiding his face and arms, wearing black plate armour encrusted with gold, a greatsword visible behind his back. He had Laila next to the oak, her hands and feet tied in rope, her mouth gaged, her eyes blind folded.
Alistair stared at him hard. Laila looked unharmed, but scared and timid, standing obediently.
“At last. Stafford arrives,” the cloaked man uttered. He had a powerful projection, his voice smooth and pleasant.
“I did. So here we are. Let us barter and go on about our lives.” The Earl said confidently.
“We shall in due time. But first I would have you know why is it that I wanted you to come in person.” The man lifted his right hand from underneath his cloak and lowered his hood, revealing a rough-hewn beautiful face. Black eyes and long red hair.
Sir Stafford stared and stared, his expression the same. “You look familiar, yet I cannot place your face on anyone I know.”
The man smiled a devilish smile. “Twenty years ago, up in the Northern Marches, you were given orders by King Edward to stop a large Scottish force raiding deep into the borderlands.”
The Earls eyebrows lowered.
“But you did not arrive in time. The Scotsmen pillaged my father’s villages and destroyed his estate. I watched as they murdered him and raped my mother before I escaped.”
“In God’s name...” The Earl whispered. “You’re...”
“Randall Drake,” the man said heavily. ”And you, Stafford, did not arrive in time.”
The hairs on Alistair’s neck had risen. This was greater than a ransom.
“The King offered his condolences and some gold, but nothing more. You did the same. I was left with nothing to build a new estate for myself.”
“We all lost much in that war. I do not have words to express my sorrow for your loss-”
“Both you and the King conspired against me. To destroy my noble family’s name.”
“We did no such thing, Drake. I would gladly hear your allegations against me in a court.”
“This is my court here, Stafford.”
“What do you want from me then?”
“I want to bury my blade in you. The girl was just a decoy to lure you here.”
“You want a duel? You shall have it.”
“I shall. But before you die... know that buying time would not benefit you. The bridges across river Arun are now destroyed by the villagers guarding them. No help would come across in hope to catch me. And as for Arundel Castle – my men are waiting in ambush in the south and west. I will be long gone before any of your allies makes his way here.”
Alistair had gripped his sword’s hilt as if he was choking Drake’s throat. Howard swore. The Earl was unsurprised. The two brothers exchanged piercing glances with Drake’s men.
“So be it. But before we cross swords, you must release the girl. I will pay you the money for her.”
Laila whined something.
“Ah yes, Lady Laila. Such a lovely flower...” Drake’s left hand snaked from underneath his cloak, a blur of movement, zapping into Laila’s neck. Howard’s daggers missed Drake’s arm. A spurt of blood bathed his armour, as Laila shook in a violent convulsion, falling down. Randall Drake smiled in pleasure, staring at Sir Stafford.
No... The world became irrelevant.
“BASTARD!” Alistair ran, drawing his sword. Only Drake mattered to him. He would slice that smile off his face.
Daggers flew towards the squire, missed him. The outlaws ran towards him, weapons drawn.
One unshaven outlaw took a swing at him with his sword. Alistair parried, slithered his blade, cut the man’s arm off and slit his throat, the man had exposed it as he screamed. The knights and outlaws clashed suddenly around him. Sir Roldan’s war cry shook the woods.
Sir Stafford and Randall Drake fought with masterful skill, speed and precision under the oak. Fury drew Alistair to Drake.
The outlaw parried the Earl and kicked him hard to the ground. Alistair swung his sword, parrying Drake’s finishing move. They exchanged hateful glances as their swords rang. Drake took a step back and his sword became a whirlwind. Alistair found himself pushed to his limit. Dodge, parry, counterattack, it was hard to keep with Drake’s speed and precision. Laila’s body lay near.
If the killer kept like this, he would soon win.
Alistair growled. Drake’s sword hit his bracer, making his right arm go downwards, Alistair’s thrust missing. Drake smiled, grabbing the blade of his sword with his left hand and thrust towards the squire’s breastplate. Alistair recognized the deadly move, tried to sidestep it... The sword penetrated his armour, stabbing him in the shoulder. Screaming, Alistair sliced Randall’s exposed face from cheek to chin, cutting his mouth. Drake cried, taking a step back, removed his sword from Alistair’s shoulder before the squire could pierce his throat. He pushed away the tip of Alistair’s sword with the strong part of his blade. Alistair sidestepped, attacking with a middle-cut towards the exposed neck.
Sir Stafford’s sword struck both men’s swords away as they were about to kill each other. Alistair’s sword fell on the ground. Before they realised what happened, the Earl kicked hard Drake in the knee, pushed him to the ground. He put his sword on the killer’s throat. Alistair stepped on Drake’s sword, leaning down to pick his own, murder on his face.
“Alistair...”
He heard his name, but did not respond. He stood, sword in hand, observing Randall Drake. Drake himself was on his knees, Stafford’s sword on his throat and he was smiling in blood. His empty black eyes were like an abyss staring back.
The meadow was silent. Only the wind whispered. A graveyard.
“This is the lesson you were talking about earlier, is it not?” Alistair uttered hoarsely. His swordhand was shaking.
“It is.”
“If I kill him now, it will be out of vengeance. Not out of knightly duty.” Swordhand trembling.
Drake was still smiling, blood dripping from his chin. That smile...
Alistair lifted his sword. Drake smiled wider. Alistair sheathed his sword.
“You... shall stand in front of the King’s court and face justice.” Alistair stated in a husky, authoritative voice. Drake was a statue, unblinking, unwavering. Smiling.


Alistair was kneeling in front of Laila’s corpse. He had removed her constraints. Her fair skin was cold. Her beautiful visage was frozen in a final moment of fear and pain. Alistair removed a lock of her from her face. Two tears trailed down slowly from his eyes. She looked so... human and frail. Not an angel, but a living being of flesh and blood.
The world was cruel. Alistair understood now completely that it was men like him that shielded others from its cruelty. Or at least tried to.
The world was cruel and it took his love from him.
“Kneel before me,” Sir Stafford whispered. Rain started falling gently. His eyes held tears in them.
Alistair did as he was commanded. The world was a haze and he was a burned out pyre.
His lord charged him with his knightly rights and duties. At the end, Alistair uttered “I swear.” There was a swordtouch on his shoulder.
“Rise, Sir Alistair.”
The knight rose, the rain washing away his tears.

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