Yet Another Chance
Yet Another Chance, the Story of Ulf and Eberwulf
The old man stepped down from his cart, a dour look on his face, his boots sticking in the mud of Wall Gate road. He braced himself with his hand on the cart as his old hip wound forced a wince.
“Hey Ulf,” called the stocky red-cloaked man, bits of armor shining from beneath in the dim morning light. “We got another one for you. Keldren, he was. Served 9 months. No known kin. Take him to your safest yard and mark him well. Someone might come some day.” he stared solemnly at the old man, his eyes turning down to the body that spilled out both ends of his barrow.
“Greetings, traveler of the long night. Your watch has passed. The moon rises to guide thee home,” Ulf said solemnly while touching a small silver amulet at his chest, a moon and its shadow. “Help me lift the fella, brother Hammond,” Ulf said as he bent over to grab hold of the dead man’s feet. He saw the boots with buttons, each a seven-pointed star, and he marked them well. “The war never really ended, did it?” he said grimly as he lifted with a grunt.
The two men heaved the dead man into the back of Ulf’s old cart; the weight flexed the weathered wood and the wheels rocked slightly in the mud. An old mule flapped his lips loudly up front at the jolt, as if waking from a nap.
“You just hold steady there, you old lout,” Ulf said to his trusted beast of burden. He grabbed a dark crimson tarp and gently pulled it over the dead man. “It’ll be done by nightfall,” he said, turning back to Hammond, who fidgeted in his pouches and held out a dark leather gauntlet.
“For your trouble.” He pushed five silver into Ulf’s hand. “Let’s hope this’ll be the last. I suspect not. No. I suspect not,” Hammond trailed off, turning in place and getting his barrow moving away.
“Till we meet again,” Ulf hollered back as he mounted the cart slowly with one leg straight. “Let’s get on out of here, Wil. I got an apple; says you can get me there before dusk, you slowpoke.” He whistled loudly to spur the cart into motion. The old wheels lurched out of the mud, pointing the cart west out of Northguard’s westernmost gate toward the hamlet of Silvershard.
As if it were music to his ears, Ulf heard his empty pocket jingle with the sound of silver for the first time in a week.
The cart meandered down the worn trail. A periodic arch of oak branches provided some shade from the rising sun. As the heat rose, Ulf shifted his pale blue hat and wiped the sweat forming on his brow. This road and the rocking took him back again to the memories he would never be able to forget.
* * *
He lay there in shock as the echo of the air turning into fire and heat washed over him, while a stone pillar collapsed as he tried to take cover. He was pinned by the fallen rubble, and his mind was filled with the pain of his crushed left hip. He gasped and stared up at the sky, ashes floating in the air and falling like a grey rain. He thought of survival and flight, but the stones were too heavy to move. He jerked with all his strength and only managed to realize the unbearable pain of a shattered hip.
He saw another soldier fleeing and yelped, “Help, brother. I’m stuck.” The man looked back briefly, and fear alone was in his eyes. He never broke stride. The terror had taken hold.
Suddenly he saw a suit of bright armor charging around the corner. He no longer had words, only pain, but he waved at the figure. The man strode forward, soot and dirt caked on the golden metal armor of a Bladesong Knight. The man quickly assessed the situation and began lifting stones off of him. Ulf could feel lightness and pain, and then he went black.
The next time he awoke, she was standing over him, her bright blue eyes filled with tears, her face stained dark, her long brown braid half open.
“Aleyda. My heart,” he mumbled through delirium and pain.
“You had better live, Ulf,” she said as she wrapped a large cloth around his waist, trying not to make his pain worse. She adjusted him onto a small, wheeled hand cart. “We must get out of Northguard now. You’re no good to fight.” Her eyes looked like she had seen things no one should see.
“They came suddenly, the red draconians … came when Brando brought you to me. They would have killed me too,” she hesitated, putting her hand to her stained face, “but Brando gave them more steel. He bought us time to escape. Rest now.”
She took hold of the cart handles and pulled it with resolve out of town to the west. The cart wobbled as Ulf fell in and out of consciousness. He could see the oak bows flickering the light of his incoherent vision.
* * *
Ulf pulled back from his sharp reverie, even as the cart rocked him slowly still. His eyes cast out west, rising through the wind-swept lowlands of Giants Dale and rising up the foothills of the western mountains, now casting growing shadows back across the dale. Rainmark squatted on the uplands, under a veil of hazy grey clouds. Still following upward, the mountains rose, and Papadin’s high peaks sat shrouded in grey-blue storm clouds, rippling with wind and shadow, stirred by the setting westerly sun. Above it all loomed Mount Olostian, fang-like, piercing the sky, its snow-capped brightness like a glowing beacon. Peace and uneasiness washed over him as he watched the violence of the daily cycle play out again in the valley and the mountains.
As Ulf’s cart approached the hamlet of Silvershard, the old man watched the road fork off to the quarry path north. He knew this route better than most, and certainly what lay at its end. Tapping Wil’s flank, he whistled sharply, and the old boy leaned off the main road into a denser stand of old oaks. They meandered down a grade of turns and Ulf saw the edge of the old quarries off in the distance – giant square holes of grey granite walls dropping down into darkness. They skirted just east of the main quarry and there along its edge lay a small oak-rimmed meadow. Ulf could see the mid-day sun casting small, bright beams into the shadows below. The cart pulled to a stop.
Ulf’s eyes adjusted, and he saw the graveyard before him: clusters of moss-covered gravestones and statues, doors carved into granite rocks, all under a deepening canopy of ancient oaks to shield them. When they first chose this site, it was convenient for the miners and quarrymen who died in the harsh, dangerous labor of stone. Over time, the locals realized that this graveyard survived desecration and was easier to hide from above, safer from dragons and their pawns. Ulf didn’t know exactly how long it had been here, but at least as old as Northguard itself.
He looked around to see that all was in order in this precious sanctum. It had been several months since his last visit. His eyes were drawn to a deeper section, then darted to a nearby patch of moonflowers he liked. Pale blossoms on long stems vibrated in the light breeze and glowed against a dark boulder.
Ulf gingerly stepped down from the cart. “Thank you, kind sir,” he said to Wil. “As promised,” he said, pulling out a fresh apple and holding it out for the mule to take. He patted the animal’s thick neck and back to unharness him. “There now, get some grass too, while you’re at it.” He turned him back around so he could graze away from the graveyard.
Before getting to business, he sat at the edge of the cart next to the dead Bladesong Knight and pulled out an old carved pipe. The name “Keldren” echoed in his mind. “Was that with an i or an e?” he wondered now. He figured he’d go with an “e” on the headstone. He puffed for a while, pondering how such a man had come to die and why he’d managed to warrant no notice or memorial but himself. Well, he would keep his bargain to Sir Hammond and make sure this man was noted.
He reached into the back and grabbed the spade he hadn’t been able to part with; though cracked-shafted, its handle had worn smooth to fit his right hand. He walked warily among the stones, closer to the graves, casting his gaze across old memories back through time. He used his knife to cut a big handful of moonflowers and held them to his nose. Tears began to well in his eyes. He walked a bit deeper and knelt beside a plain, knee-high stone column with a circular tuft of dry green moss on top. There, written simply along its face, was “Lady Aleyda.” He smoothed a few leaves from the moss and cleared a little around the base. Then he placed a handful of the moonflowers he’d gathered on top, as if on an altar. He felt the place watching him make his pilgrimage again. There he made an arcing crescent gesture with his hand, knelt, and began his prayers.
Something inside him stirred as he closed his eyes and his heart turned to the love he carried with him. The shadows of this place somehow stirred.
* * *
Flashes of her filled his mind. Aleyda’s blue eyes, looking both scared and brave. Helping his broken body off the cart into a small shed where they could hide and shelter. Working tirelessly to stabilize his wound. Going back and forth with food and whatever herbs and medicine she could find by foraging. He drifted in and out of awareness, but he could tell she wasn’t sleeping. As the time blurred, she looked tired. He could tell she was sick. He urged her to take rest too or to find a healer for them both. The lone healer in Silvershard, old mother Thalia, was off to Northguard and, possibly, never coming back to her three generations of children. They nursed their strength on foraged apples, stolen honey, and cow’s milk from the farm they were hiding at. But Aleyda couldn’t fight it. On the 4th day, Ulf woke, and Aleyda did not wake. He wept like a man with nothing left, and that was close to true. After a few days of helplessness and near starvation, a farmer’s son found them. They took him into their home and finished the job Aleyda started … of saving his life.
* * *
Ulf wiped his eyes as he opened them in quiet contemplation. In his lowest moments, he told himself that he had to stay alive, because she had sacrificed everything for him. There had to be a reason for that. What was the point of letting her sacrifice go to waste? So, he always kept on.
His eyes watched the moonflowers shine in the shadow, flickering in the slight breeze. He knew he could not linger long, because he had digging to do and needed to bury a man.
Ulf rose up slowly, grabbing his shovel. Then he heard ragged shuffling behind him. He turned and saw out of the treeline a man-shaped shadow, shuffling at a great speed. He watched in rising panic as the horrid thing jumped up onto the back of his cart and descended onto the knight’s body in one violent, pouncing motion. Growling and thrashing sounds broke the peace of the graveyard.
Not knowing what it was, he mustered what courage he had and stumbled forward as quickly as he could, raising his shovel. When he reached it, flesh flew everywhere. Without pause, he tried to hit the thing in the head as hard as he could, knocking it off the cart and splintering the cracked haft of his shovel in two. The thing screamed a horrific squeal, hissing, and touching its head. As it looked at him in deep confusion, Ulf could see its pale, empty eyes. This thing was no man, but undead! A grave ghoul! In horror, he realized he was no match for this dark evil and backed away, stumbling. He turned and tried to run away in pure fright. Maybe he could hide somewhere?
As he frantically stumbled through the gravestones, pushed by fear, he passed into the darkest area. He kept going deeper into the oldest part of the yard where he had not been in years, where the oaks were old and gnarled. A moss-covered mausoleum rose in the green gloom before him atop a small mound, and he decided to hide behind it. With his heart hammering, he finally glanced back to see if the thing was following him. Fortunately for him, it was much more attracted to eating the dead than the living … for now.
As he stepped onto the mound, his hip twinged and his leg gave way. He stumbled forward and fell hard against the turf. Then, suddenly, he fell into darkness. He hit a hard, flat stone surface, and dust and moss fell all around him.
He was inside an old mausoleum and could see the light streaming in from the giant hole he had just created. He knelt, turned around, and saw a long granite sarcophagus with a carved shape atop it. The craftsmanship and motifs looked old and elven. Just behind it, a shelf on the wall glowed. Sitting upon it was some kind of ever-burning candle, shining with a faint blue light, opposite a square dark lantern that appeared to have gone dark in prior eons. There, shimmering in the dim blue magical light, were a massive sword propped against the wall and an armor stand holding a shimmering plate-mail breastplate.
Ulf stumbled forward with urgency, trying to grab the head-high weapon. But as he reached up to grasp the long handle, he realized the sword was taller than himself. He frantically tried to get a hold of the weapon anyhow, but the weight and awkward space were too much for him – it came crashing down with a clang alongside the sarcophagus. He looked down at the weapon now and saw it for the first time. This was no ordinary weapon! It was magnificent! However, he realized he might not be able to defend himself with such a large and heavy weapon. Maybe in his younger days…. He hurriedly turned back and grabbed the breastplate, as the three-legged wooden stand fell back against the floor. He knelt behind the sarcophagus, opened it, and put it on. “This just might help me get out alive!” he thought. Just as he opened the two halves, he saw the candle flicker and brighten slightly. Or had he imagined that? He looked down and saw the large letters carved in the metal of the breastplate, “EBERWULF”. He couldn’t help but call the name under his breath: “Hmmm… Eberwulf.” As he spoke it and ran his fingers across it, a brief flash flickered, and Ulf was wearing the breastplate. He looked down in amazement and shock at his own empty hands. He suddenly felt a boost of courage. He stood and felt his arms filled with life. His hip wasn’t aching at all, now that he thought about it. He put his hand on the head carved in the sarcophagus and spoke softly. “Bless you, Eberwulf, for you might give me another life for the second time in this lifetime. And I am still paying for the first time!” He bent down toward the sword and noticed its long flamberge blade first. Then he saw the pommel had the 7-pointed star of the Bladesong Knights and the guard had the moon and shadow, symbol of none other than his own mistress, Sehanine Moonbow. “What in all the blazes of great fortune, my lady.”
He then solemnly knelt before the sarcophagus and made the sign of the crescent moon. “Eberwulf. I shall return to renew your burial, after a bit.” Standing tall, he easily laid the sword up on the mossy slope and pulled himself out of the hole as if twenty years had gone off his body in a moment.
Ulf marched out of the shadowy inner part of the graveyard toward the light, with confidence equal to the fear he had felt moments ago in flight. He flexed his arms and hands, gripping the sword tightly, and felt it ready to move for him. He’d never felt this kind of strength before and had known only frailty since his perilous flight long ago from Northguard.
He stalked forward and found the ghoul still feeding on the dead knight, lost in a necromantic hunger Ulf could never comprehend. He raised the blade high over his head and spoke, “Go back to your death.” With these urgent words, the ghoul threw its head back to look at him, its face covered in gore.
Then Ulf let the blade swing down and around in one motion, severing the ghoul’s neck in one scythe-like swing. Its head toppled down into the puddle of remains. That’s when the stench hit Ulf like a wave, and he bent over and vomited uncontrollably.
He stepped away from the bloody cart and sat on the mossy ground for a time, contemplating all that had befallen him. That’s when he saw Wil, grazing slowly back up the road, content and unaware.
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