Drifting…
The torrents had passed…
Drifting…
Gone was the hurricane that had ripped him away…
Drifting…
In its place, the haze of a dream as he floated through the air…
Drifting…
Drifting…
Floating…
Drifting…
Adrift…
Am I dead…?
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.
.
.
.
It would be such a shame to die without even seeing this new…
…where was I going?
Drifting…
…I was going…somewhere…
Spectral figures roamed through the mist, their eyes piercing the fog like the rays of the sun.
Drifting…
First he saw men and women, commoners and lords, children and parents and elders.
Drifting…
Then came the soldiers, knights and men-at-arms, Templars and Sergeants. With them strode Karim.
Drifting...
There were dark pulses in the mist, and where they pulsed they swallowed the lights, and only Karim escaped. For a time, nothing came.
Drifting…
Then came the Hospitallers, first knights, then monastic brothers, and last of all Methuselah. While the others floated past, his eyes snapped to Jacques, shining more brilliantly than the others. It should have blinded the friar, but instead he saw a vibrant world full of color, and through it roamed the colorful herd of Methuselah’s vision. In a flash he saw laid out before him the tableaux that the old man had described, and he felt that if he could have but a minute with the vision then all would be made clear—
The light became blinding, and he saw no more of the vision. He drifted once more in the fog.
Drifting…
Around him the mists had changed, taking on the vibrant colors of the world he had briefly glimpsed. Jacques could have sworn that he saw shapes moving in the fog, but it was too vague, too indistinct to clearly see.
Drifting…
A sensation overcame him, that of motion. Jacques did not know how long he had drifted, but he could not remember when he had last felt motion. He knew it had been when he had left Methuselah, but that had been…
Drifting…
Weeks? Months? Years? He did not know.
Moving…
But now he was going somewhere. He was not sure if that meant he was dead or not, but he didn’t think he was. He still had a mission, so he could not be dead.
Moving…
Wind rushed in his hair as he accelerated towards his goal. He wanted to feel excitement, anticipation, something about his destination, but it was all so strange, so alien. He did not feel any particular passion. He felt that things were progressing towards a purpose, and simply accepted that. Accepted it as he would accept the pull of the earth below…
.
.
.
…below…
.
.
.
Falling…
.
.
.
.
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.
Friar Jacques gasped, sucking in a greedy double lungful of air as he sat bolt upright. He was lying on his back in a grassy field overrun with wildflowers. The sun shone warm upon his face, and a gentle breeze rippled through the meadow, setting the plants to dance. Birds trilled merrily in the spring air, their songs lending melody to the pastoral scene. It was beautiful.
It also made absolutely no sense. “By what madness have I come here?” grunted Jacques, heaving himself to his feet and dusting off his habit. The last thing he remembered with any clarity was bidding farewell to Methuselah at the gate. Then he had stepped forward, felt the pull as of the sea in a storm and then…
Nothing. Nothing distinct, at any rate. He had vague recollections of drifting through an ethereal plane, but the more he tried to concentrate on what he’d seen, the less distinct everything became. He gave up when the beginning of a headache made itself known.
Maybe I fell down a hill, he reasoned. Maybe I was knocked unconscious, and Methuselah did not know because he could not see me. Mayhap—
Whatever theory the Frenchman held was quickly dispelled with a look at his surroundings. His grassy field did not lie at the bottom of a hill near the St. Gilles Priory, or of any other in Provencal. Most of the flowers were foreign to any that he was familiar with; the mountains in the distance did not look like any that Jacques could recognize; and he could not recall the Priory being anywhere near a dark, foreboding forest that seemed utterly at odds with the otherwise vibrant landscape. It was as though he’d stepped out the door to the Priory and into another world.
“Into another world,” he breathed aloud. The words had sprung unbidden to his mouth, but now that he had uttered them, their weight was enough to drag him down. He fell to his knees, shaking. “Another world,” he hissed. “But…but that cannot be! I must be dreaming! Surely I must be dreaming! This is madness! This is…” his eyes drifted to follow a pair of sparrows flitter by, “surely madness.” He realized he was trying to convince himself.
Jacques had always trusted his instincts. He had been blessed with a heart that sought the truth and would not accept any deception. It has served him well as both a soldier and as a priest. It had been his instincts that had led him to trust Methuselah and to step through the door when his reasoning could not fathom why. And now those same instincts were telling him that this was no dream. His mind rebelled at the thought, but the instincts insisted. And so Jacques’ befuddled mind responded the only way it could:
He laughed uncontrollably.
It started as a simple chortle, climbed to a chuckle, and crescendoed into outright roars of mirth. He sat on his heels and laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. “Oh, Methuselah, Methuselah!” he howled. “When you said I’d be sent to a far off land, I’d no idea you meant so immediately!”
The priest laughed for a long while before his mirth finally abated enough for him to rise. Once more he dusted himself off, feeling rather embarrassed by the near-manic nature of his outburst. It was plain that what had happened to him was miraculous, and had he known for certain where his path might take him next he might have stayed to contemplate that wondrous fact. But, as he did not know, he reasoned that there was nothing to be gained by waiting in a field; things would unfold in their due time, and right now it seemed time to get moving.
And so Jacques made a quick prayer of thanksgiving for his safe arrival, and followed with a prayer for direction. His initial examination of the field had yielded no signs of civilization, so, having said his petition, he took a more thorough look at his surroundings.
He saw little that he had not noticed before, but as his gaze drifted by the mountains he caught sight of a spire that did not appear natural. Looking closer, it appeared to be a gold and ivory tower which peeked around the side of a mountain to what was (guessing from the position of the sun) the northwest. The construction reminded him of the onion domes of Byzantine churches or the minarets of a mosque. It appeared to be a good many miles off, and his shoulders slumped at the thought of such a long journey. But, as there are no other signs of civilization in view, it would appear that I have little choice. And so he set off for the distant tower, softly singing a hymn as he went.
The path took him along the side of the foreboding forest, but did not yet demand that he enter it. Jacques was glad of this. He was no stranger to making his way through dense woods, and in truth had always enjoyed the thickness of a forest canopy shading him as he walked. But something about this particular forest set him on edge. It was too quiet for his liking, as though it concealed some menace. At first he put it down to concern over brigands, but no mere brigand had ever set him so on edge as this forest did. There was just something… wrong about it. Not the woods themselves, he realized, but something in them. He felt as though he were being watched. Unbidden, stories of the demons and monsters that were wont to lurk in the wicked parts of the world sprang to mind; goblins, trolls, wyverns, and the like.
Jacques began to sing the hymn a little more loudly.
Once or twice he was certain he saw something lurking at the edge of his vision, but it made no move to leave the undergrowth, and whenever he turned to see it, it would vanish. Nonetheless, his hand was never far from his sword. Jacques was loathe to ever again draw the blood of a man, but something told him that if whatever was watching him chose to attack, it would not be a man that he faced.
It was only after he’d been walking for some time that Jacques realized that he wasn’t tired. He glanced up at the sun and discovered, to his shock, that he’d been walking for several hours. Where once it was mid-morning, it had now just passed noon. He’d been expecting to need to rest, and perhaps forage for food, at least once by now. And yet he felt…fine. His muscles felt some strain, of course, but he was by no means weary. I know that I have kept myself hale of body, but I’m not that fit. He bounced on his heels experimentally. I haven’t had this much spring in my step since I was thirty.
The oddity gave him pause, but eventually he forced his confusion down with a shrug. “‘They shall walk and never faint,’ it would seem,” he remarked, recalling his Scripture. After apparently crossing untold miles through a miraculous portal, it was not difficult to attribute his tirelessness to another miraculous event.
Up ahead the path seemed to curve around the edge of the forest to the north. Wondering if perhaps the shift in the terrain heralded a new view to take in, he hastened around the bend.
He was not disappointed. “Praise God,” he mumbled. There below him, lying in the midst of miles of rolling hills and orchards and nestled beside a burbling creek, was a town. Jacques had to blink in some amazement at the sight. The whole land around him seemed vibrant, more colorful even than the most fertile fields of France, such that hours of walking had only partially succeeded in making him accustomed to the rainbow of hues. Yet even so the town was something of a shock to his senses. The buildings looked, for the most part, to be rather similar in construction to the peasant cottages of France and Germany. But these were of far better construction, their frames solid and their thatching fresh. And they were so…pretty to look at. Everything in the town seemed merry, as though it had been painted for a festival or a Holy Day and simply frozen in that state. What grand celebrations and revelry these townsfolk must have if these are their everyday surroundings! he marveled. Amongst the cottages were a few more exotic buildings, some of which resembled lordly pavilions, and others great manor houses. One building in particular caught his eye: a home which seemed to have been carved, and he had to rub his eyes and look a second time to verify what he was seeing, from a living tree! He remembered the tales of elves and dwarves from his youth. Is it to such a land that I am sent? wondered the priest. If so, I must take care to beware the Faerie Folk!
Amidst the buildings he saw movement, and was about to see if he could make anything out about the town’s inhabitants when a blood-curdling howl tore through the air, followed by the terrified shrieks of children. “Help!” cried a chorus of young voices from the woods to his right. “Timber wolves! Timber wolves! Heeelp!”
At the cry, all other thoughts were banished from his mind. Jacques tore off into the woods as fast as his legs could carry him. Brambles and branches tore at his cassock like the claws of beasts, but he trampled them under, moving towards the shrieks with all possible speed.
“Applebloom, hurry! They’re gaining!”
“Keep runnin,’ gals! Ah’m right behind ya!”
They’re speaking English, but this is not the England Andrew described. The accent is different. A lost tribe? Never heard of ‘timber’ wolves before! How large are they?
“This way! This way! Back towards town!”
“No, they’re that way too! We gotta go deeper!”
Jacques adjusted his course. At least I can understand what they say. If I can intercept them—
There was a sharp shriek at the upper edge of his hearing. “I’m stuck! I’m stuck!”
A fallen log blocked Jacques’ path.
“Consarn these vines!”
“Hang on, Sweetie! We’re coming!”
He cleared it in a single bound.
“No! Run! They’re right behind you!”
Please, God—
“We’re not leaving you!”
Please, God, let me be in time!
Through the trees he saw giant forms prowling back and forth in a shaded clearing. Putting on a final turn of speed, he burst into the clearing, his sword ringing from its scabbard as he faced—
Hellhounds!
The sight of the nightmarish beasts was enough to freeze him in his tracks momentarily. The abominations did, in truth, resemble wolves of timber, but the unholy green gleam in their eyes could only have belonged to the craft of the pagan druids. But he could spend no time contemplating what this revelation might mean. Across the clearing were the children, hidden by a tangle of vines and shadow, but clearly in jeopardy. And, blocking his path to them, were five of the so-called ‘timber wolves.’
Jacques brandished his sword, crying out his challenge in English so that the children might know that a protector had arrived. “Begone, foul beasts! In God’s Name, you’ll not harm these little ones!” The wolves did not run, but they did turn their attention to the warrior instead of their intended victims. Jacques fell into the Nebenhut stance, his sword held in both hands with its tip pointed to the ground behind him. “Flee, children, if ye are able! I shall hold the beasts here!”
Whatever response they might have given was cut off by the first wolf, who charged with a snarl. Never one to let the other set the pace of the fight, Jacques answered with a roar and bull-rushed the monstrosity. The wolf leapt into the air to tackle him, and he swung his sword in an upward strike that clove its right leg from its body. Sidestepping the wounded hell-beast, he pivoted with his sword in the Vom Tag position. The wolf landed badly, its remaining front leg splintering from the impact. It struggled to swing its head around, but he didn’t give it the chance. With a bellow and a downward swipe, he shattered its head.
As he did, the friar felt something change. The first time he’d struck the monster, he felt the wooden limb come apart much as he would have felt it if he’d broken a table or a chair. But the instant he shattered the wolf’s head, extinguishing the gleam in its eyes, it felt different; as though he’d ripped through tendon and sinew rather than kindling. He had severed something. In that moment, Jacques knew that the monstrosity was dead. He did not merely think it. He felt it in his bones.
The sensation was so unfamiliar that it disoriented him briefly, and in that moment the other wolves struck. Jacques’ only warning before the pain ripped into his right side was the growling of the beast the instant before its claws tore through his cassock and the flesh beneath. Reacting on instinct he spun and sideswiped the beast as it passed. Before he could finish it off, another wolf struck from his other side, and he barely managed to deflect its charge with his sword. By now all four wolves were circling him, forcing him to watch all angles. He held his blade in a close guard and did his best to keep the weapon between himself and whatever wolf was lunging.
It wasn’t enough.
Jacques received a quartet of slashes across his back and his left leg, and was unable to strike back for fear of leaving himself open to another wolf. Realizing that he could not remain where he was, he dipped his sword into the position known as Pflug. ‘The Plow.’ Point forward, he rushed the smallest of the four wolves with a bellow. Caught off-guard by the sudden counterattack, the wolf was unable to dodge the lancing blade and was impaled through the skull. There was the same severing sensation as before as the timbers lost whatever magical bindings had held them. Jacques sensed rather than heard the other three beasts closing behind him, and so while his sword was still partially entangled with the dead monster he spun and swung, whipping the fragments of their dead comrade into the other beasts’ faces.
The move briefly blinded the other three, just as he’d hoped, and he took a quick step forward to slash the right wolf across the face before pulling back into a low guard. The wolves growled, but did not attempt to charge. Rather, they spread out and forced him back towards the edge of the clearing.
Jacques was panting now. Though he had not had the chance to examine his wounds, he knew the cuts were deep. Already he was feeling unsteady from the blood loss. He could only hope that the children had made the most of their head start and—
“Yeah! You git ‘em, mister!” shouted the most thickly accented of the children.
“Show those toothpicks who’s boss!” encouraged the raspy-voiced girl.
“Are you mad?” roared the old knight. “Why do you linger! Go!”
There was a grunt and the sound of thrashing vines. “Sweetie Belle’s still stuck! These dang vines just won’t let go!”
“And they won’t leave me!” piped in the highest pitched of the voices.
The friar growled in frustration. It was hardly the children’s fault that they lacked the strength to free their friend, but it did make his task rather more difficult. He held no illusions about his chances of survival, but that mattered little. He was a soldier. This was his mission. “Very well,” he rumbled. “I shall do what I can. But when you manage to free her, you must run immediately, and not look back.”
“But what about you?” demanded the raspy voice.
Jacques did not answer her. “Come to me, ye spawn of Hell!” challenged the priest. “Or do you fear to fight an old man?”
The right- and left-most wolves accepted his challenge and darted in, attempting to flank him. The friar swung his blade in a wide arc that missed both targets, but kept them at bay. The centermost hell-beast dashed forward, light on its claws to dodge his counterattack. His backswing clipped its nose, but did no serious damage. While his blade was yet extended, the two flanking beasts lunged. Waiting to move until the last moment, he backpedaled to avoid their attacks and sliced at the flank of the left wolf. The beast snarled, but did not go down. Not wanted to be caught in a melee so close, he stepped sideways, skirting the edge of the clearing as he traded blows with the three wolves.
His attackers appeared to have learned from their dead comrades and avoided attacking him piecemeal. Instead, two would keep his focus split while the third attempted to strike when his sword was otherwise occupied. For his part, he knew not to over-extend his reach, and managed to keep his blade in close while whittling away at them with quick slices. But, as he bled his way through the clearing, he knew that it was only a matter of time before one side or the other made a mistake.
As it happened, the wolves did first. Behind them came the abrupt sound of vines snapping, accompanied by the jubilant exclamation of “I’m free! I’m free!” from the high-voiced young girl. At the disturbance, the three wolves turned their heads.
“Flee, young ones!” ordered Jacques, seizing the monsters’ distraction to thin their ranks. Lunging forward he punished the rightmost wolf with a flurry of blows, hacking off chunks of its shoulders, snout, and, eventually, its head. He felt the satisfying tear as the unholy enchantment was ripped apart.
The victory was short-lived. As he finished off his target, one of the other menaces leapt into the air, snarling as it tried to bear him to the ground. Jacques managed to bring his guard up and brace his left hand on the blade like a short-staff, using it to absorb the impact and twist him with the force rather than letting it knock him down. But, though he remained standing, he was sent staggering by the force of the blow, and was unable to block the gouges that the other wolf made in his back. Shouting in pain he swung a backhanded strike blindly and was rewarded by a yelp of pain from his assailant. Before he could turn to press the advantage, however, the wolf that had tackled him rose to its feet and menaced him.
Caught between two monsters, the old priest found himself panting as he felt blood dripping down his legs and back. He attempted to step back to avoid being encircled, but the wolves anticipated his move and shifted to counter it. Jacques cursed, and the sword wavered in his grasp. I’ve lost too much blood, he realized with the fatalism of a veteran. I won’t be leaving this battlefield. He listened for sounds of the children, but, hearing nothing, assumed that they’d run as he’d told them. The Hospitaller allowed himself a faint smile. Perhaps this was why I was sent here. To save them. And now that I have… his gaze flicked between the two wolves, perhaps I shall finally rejoin my brothers when I end this battle. “Well, monsters,” he chuckled, “what are you waiting for? This old man is ready to die.”
The wolves tensed, snarling as they took their places, one on his right, the other on his left. Jacques felt his heartbeat slow as the world around him seemed to become, for a moment, still. For the first time since entering the fight, the woods were quiet to him. Jacques had been in this state before, when his mind melded so closely to the rigors of combat that the world seemed to move at a leisurely pace and his enemies became predictable. To his right, the wolf held its head to the ground, its legs tensed to fling itself forward. To the left, the wolf coiled itself like a spring, ready to leap. Without conscious thought Jacques knew how they would attack. And how he would answer.
The friar lowered his sword into the Pflug guard, and waited.
With almost painful slowness, the left wolf leapt high into the air, aiming for his head as the right wolf dove for his legs. Their attacks were precise… synchronized… and anticipated. Jacques fell into a crouch, swinging his sword to the right in an arc, using his hips as a fulcrum to leverage his entire weight into the strike. Already committed to the charge, the wolf was unable to avoid its doom. The blade entered the side of its head along the jawline, cracking the skull inwards with the force of a woodsman’s axe as he clove the wolf’s palette open and sprayed fragments of branches and twigs across the clearing. The remnants of the monster exploded impotently at his feet. In a single stroke, the battered old warrior had eliminated one of his foes. But he did not escape unscathed. For as the other wolf passed overhead, his rear legs kicked off the priest’s shoulders, slicing deep into his flesh and throwing him to the ground amidst a spray of blood.
Jacques gasped in pain as his spine smacked heavily into the earth. So sudden was the impact that he lost his grip on his sword. Holy God! he prayed. Coughing as air struggled to return to his lungs, he managed to sit upright, searching for his attacker. He spied the wolf a few feet away, twisting to leer at him before lunging forward. “Theotokos, mercy!” he exclaimed as he fumbled for his sword, barely managing to grip it in his bloody hands and brace the pommel against the ground, point up like a pike held against cavalry.
He just managed to set his trap before the wolf sprung, and it obligingly impaling itself upon his makeshift polearm. The snarling monster slid down the full length of the sword and crashed into him with its weight, earning another hiss of pain from the bloodied crusader as he felt something in his chest give. That was a rib! Or perhaps three! The creature’s snarling maw howled as it fell towards his head, and he shut his eyes against the inevitable gnashing of its fangs.
But the flesh-rending attack never came. Instead he was rewarded with the experience of being pelted in the face with a box of kindling, accompanied by the same severing sensation as the other four times. The body crumbled atop him.
For a moment, Jacques lay completely still, panting beneath the heap of bark and tinder. Then he heaved a sigh of relief and let his sword fall to the ground. Shifting up onto his elbows with a groan, he managed to dig the tip of his sword into the earth and lever himself up to his knees, where he used the hilt of his weapon as a makeshift cross. “God be praised,” he prayed, his voice barely audible through the panting.
Operating more on instinct than with any particular goal in mind, he heaved himself to his feet, only to very nearly fall back over. The knight had to resort to using his sword as a cane just to stay upright. For some reason, he giggled at the fact. “Sorry about the blade, Karim. This can’t be good for it,” he mumbled as he tried to hobble forward. His knees shook and he had to keep blinking away spots in his vision. The priest had a vague sense of where the girls had run off to, and was trying to move in that direction, but his world seemed to spin. A miracle that I’m still standing, he mused as he tried to hobble forward. His foot caught on the remnants of a destroyed wolf and he narrowly avoided collapsing. Somehow, I don’t think that will be the case much longer, he realized ruefully, as I am certainly dying. The prospect of death might have bothered him had he been a younger man, but Jacques had passed beyond the fear of such things long ago. I wonder what heaven will be like—
“This way, Twi! Hurry!”
Jacques stopped, not sure if his mind was playing tricks on him.
“I’m *pant* coming, Applejack!”
The priest blinked, almost halting his stumble towards the treeline. Either I’ve gone mad, or the children managed to find help.
“Just ‘round this bend, gals! Arr Dee! Down here!” The voice sounded like an older version of the accented child. Jacques could now hear the sound of hooves as horses crashed through the undergrowth in his direction. Riders, then. Small wonder they arrived so fast, the man mused as he stumbled towards the trees on his left. I wonder what manner of people these newcomers will—
Two brightly colored ponies burst into the clearing. The first was orange, with straw mane and tail, a strange brand on its flank and, even more strangely, a wide-brimmed hat on its head. But the second pony was so bizarre that the first almost failed to register. For starters, its lavender, purple, and crimson colors were beyond unusual. And then there was the small matter of the horn protruding from its forehead.
Jacques collapsed against the nearest tree, barely managing to stay upright as he stared, mouth agape. “<What on God’s green earth…>” he breathed, reverting to his native French.
The two ponies had been surveying the carnage of the timber wolves when they first entered the clearing, but at the sound of his voice both looked up at him. The orange pony blinked, and then spoke in English, tipping a hoof to its hat. “Good golly, yer a big one, ain’t ya!”
Jacques’ grip on the tree dug into the bark as his jaw flapped open and closed.
Shooting a glare at the hat-wearing pony, the unicorn hissed, “Applejack! Be polite!”
Jacques’ mind became unhinged as it tried, and failed, to process what he was seeing. Unicorn! Talking unicorn! Talking pony! How?! Why?!
The two ponies exchanged a glance, and the unicorn stepped forward. “Hello, I’m Twilight Sparkle, and—
“Wha- what? What?” cried Jacques, his voice rising to near panic as he slipped between English and French. “<What is?> How are? <Why—> Talking? What sorcery is this?”
Before either of the ponies could respond, there were the sounds of yet more hooves, accompanied by wingbeats this time, heralding the arrival of several other ponies of a horrifying variety of colors, two of whom resembled the pegasi of myth. I’m in the land of Faeries! he realized, to his horror. And while some tales say the unicorn is a creature of God, I know of few tales where other animals talk without some devilry being involved!
One of the pegasi, a yellow-colored one with a pink mane, looked grief-stricken by the sight of him. “Oh, you poor thing!” she cooed, beginning to flap forward with the others in tow. “Here, let me—
“Stay back!” ordered Jacques, managing to bring up his sword as he held the tree like a lifeline. “I’ll not…” he trailed off as his vision blurred and his blade wavered. “I’ll not be taken for your witchcraft!”
Another unicorn, a white-coated one this time, huffed in annoyance. “Witchcraft?!” she exclaimed with a snort “The very nerve!”
“Now, Rarity, he’s just scared and has lost a lot of blood,” rebuked the yellow pegasus.
Jacques blinked in disbelief. Did she just defend me?
The first unicorn stepped forward. “Please, sir, we mean you no harm. We just want to help you!”
“Yeah, mister!” piped in the accented child from before, her voice coming from the midst of the ponies. “It’s alright! We got our sisters an’ their friends ta come an’ help you!” Before any of the ponies could restrain them, a trio of tiny figures emerged from the midst of the herd and walked forward…
…on four legs.
Three ponies in particular seemed distraught by this, calling for the little ones to come back, but Jacques scarcely noticed. He was too busy blinking over and over to banish the nonsensical image he was seeing as three fillies beamed up at him with big, adoring eyes. “Come on, mister,” urged the one with the bow in its hair. “Let ‘em help you!”
Jacques stared open-mouthed as the reality of the situation washed fully over him, along with his exhaustion, broken bones, and blood loss. His vision became a pastel blur as his grip on the tree loosened. “<Merciful God, where am I?>” he asked as his gaze drifted to black and the ground rushed to meet him.