From West to East

It's been about a year since I wrote this little story for a statewide competition in school. It certainly isn't my best work, but it did win first place for the Sixth grade division! The tale is that of a young squire close to knighthood, and his trek through the forest on one final mission. I might just write a sequel or two, if I have some spare time.

 Here it is, From West to East:

   The depths of those woods seemed to engulf the sunlight, leaving the plains before them dark and dreary. Not far from there an alert village stood right on the rough waters. Every inhabitant was on edge; this was not a place of leisure. They had a purpose, and any person there wished it would be over.

"You are ready for this, Greg. I know you won't let us down." The commander was pale and hasty; He wanted it over just like everyone else. Their struggle could end in a few weeks, for better or for worse.

   "Don't worry, Sir. I'm sure we'll make it through." Gregor placed a hand bogusly on the shoulder of the squire beside him. Kenton shrugged him off; he didn't need that man getting hold of him. That had happened too many times before. He was ready to become a knight and leave the wretched outpost forever. It wasn't home.

   The commander, unknown to the two before him, could care less about the relationship between Kenton and Sir Gregor. As long as the squires got trained he would let anything happen. "So you understand? This forest is the only thing between you and our legion camped around Tomtas. Once you relay our status to them they attack immediately."

   Gregor nodded. His clear-steel chain mail shone like the white washed walls of the desert home he once had across the ocean. He missed that place dearly. Yet, he risked his life every day to keep it safe, regardless of whether or not he would see it again. At least, that's what he told himself.

   While those men stood saying their farewells, Kenton turned to the woods. His five years as a squire all lead up to this. The enemy was strongest at Tomtas, and it was the only thing holding the Kingdom from taking the foreigners.

   Kenton always felt this was his life. He had no father, and his mother was dead inside. In early times she couldn't take care of him, so he ended up in the arms of those knights. They taught him, trained him, and gave him hope. This was his chance to prove he was one of them!

   He was abruptly pulled from the daydream with a jerk at his already torn tunic. Gregor pulled him over to the shade of two maple trees. The commander was gone, and they were left alone. Greg pulled the squire's face close to his own.

   "Listen Kent, this is dangerous stuff. The real thing. We need to get serious, am I clear? You will listen to what I say." He dropped Kenton from his grasp as if he were an unwanted piece of fruit, rotten and foul. The knight stalked off through the dark gate the trees conceived as. He glanced back, and a scowl spread across his face. Kenton followed behind him, and they left.

   Every couple of minutes they would tread over a patch of dead grass, and it would crunch under their feet. It made Kenton wince as if pain was torturing him. He had always felt in danger, or unsafe. It ate away at him in the night, but he refused to tell anyone.

   "So what are your plans?"

   Kenton looked up from the ground. It was only himself and Gregor, without another soul among them. The trees rattled in a cool autumn wind.

   "Answer me." Greg hinted his annoyance with a sharp tone.

   "What'd you ask?"

   "What are your plans after you become a knight?" Gregor restated.

   Kenton pondered this for a second. "Well, I guess leave for the mainland, and maybe I'll find my father."

   Gregor swallowed air to reply, but said nothing. Yet, he halted, allowing for Kenton to catch up. As the squire strolled towards him a single arrow raced past his right arm, coming from the trees. It came close to Greg's shoulder, barely missing by inches. He swerved to face Kent, eyes full of worry. Grasping him by the arm, he dived forward and pulled Kent with him. Suddenly tens of arrows burst from all around them, creating a whirlwind above the comrades.

   Kenton followed Greg's lead, and they both inched forward to the shelter of a rose bush. Greg pulled from his pack an iron dagger, and handed it to Kent. "Protect yourself, and stay close." With that said they both got to their knees and braced themselves to run.

   Without warning Greg threw himself into the open, like a rat attempting escape from a snake pit. Kenton followed, a bit more delayed, but courage. His own running paled in comparison to Greg's quick sprint, even when the knight had heavy steel armor holding him back. Kent's dark black hair flew everywhere, as if it had come to life. Up ahead, Gregor had met a challenge. His long blade was unsheathed and facing someone behind a tree.

   An arrow skimmed across the back of Kent's shirt, creating a large rip from his shoulder diagonally to his waist. He knew not to get distracted by it, or the arrow would hit him next time. No, he just kept on dashing forward. The tree before him began to rattle, and from the highest branches leapt a strongly built man in brown robes. He hurdled from the tree expertly, and landed behind Kenton. The squire stopped for a second, but decided to run. There was no use facing an enemy he couldn't beat. It seemed it would be forced on him, though. Further on past Kent more strange men appeared from behind an old oak. They wielded spears, sharpened and dangerous. Kent held his tiny dagger before them and felt weak and susceptible.

   Out of nowhere, an arrow came flying at Kenton. It tore across the bridge of his nose, sending throbbing pain through his head. He placed a hand over his face, feeling the hot sticky blood try to seep through his fingers.

   The rouge men edged ever closer to the squire, raising their spears in unison. They smirked with triumph, but one tribesman held an expression of true fear. He collapsed on the ground, and Gregor slid his sword from the man's back. Kent watched as he took out the other two in three swift strikes. Kenton couldn't help letting out a defiant, "Yes!"

   Greg obviously didn't feel the same. He pointed behind Kent, and the squire realized the tribesman from in the tree was still there. Whirling around, Kent threw the miniscule dagger in the rouge's direction. It pierced his robes just below the collarbone, sending him reeling back in agony. That wasn't stopping him though. With one hand on the bloody wound and another holding his spear, the rouge ran at the squire awkwardly.

   "Kenton, take the sword!"

   Kent reared around to meet Gregor's blade, soaring at him. He barely grabbed the sword, but once he did he was amazed. It seemed to send waves of fresh energy down his arm, renewing his stamina. It became more of an extension of his arm; it felt so natural. He turned to face off against his enemy in combat.

   The injured rouge openly stabbed at Kenton. The squire parried it and retracted for a more powerful attack. Droplets of scarlet blood flew around them as the two warriors engaged with such sudden movements. The tribesman came closer, a bad mistake. Kent lashed out, swiping the sword between the man's ribs. He cried out in despair, which became an abrupt gasp as his last breath left him.

   Kenton pulled away from his victim. The clearing was silent; their assailants had fled. Yet, there was a distant pounding ... they were coming back. Wiping the blade on a root of the oak tree, Kent handled the blade gently. Gregor snatched it from his hands.

   "Kent, stay close. I hear a river nearby. There's a, uh, checkpoint, you could say."

   The squire was puzzled. No thanks or congratulations? That was Greg for you, even when Kenton though they had bonded in battle.

   What was across the river? Nevertheless, he followed Gregor though the thick undergrowth of ferns and brambles. They scratched at his skin and irritated the squire.

   The knight was right, there was a river nearby. Kent watched as a small pebble floated upstream, carried uncontrollably by the current. It hit a mount of mud sticking out of the surface, and stuck there. It gave Kent a weird familiar feeling.

   "Kenton, come on. There's a ford somewhere this way we can cross." Greg seemed quiet as the trekked on. Kent couldn't help but wonder what troubled him.

   "Greg ... what's across this river?"

   The knight in steel chain mail stopped. He ran his fingers through the short red hair that covered his head. Then he turned away from Kenton and began to cross over the river.

   "There is an old memory buried in this wood," he muttered, chocking back a sob. Kent was almost afraid to ask now.

   Along the river, opposite the way they came, the two of them stopped by a fantrum tree. Old writing was carved into the trunk, but it was illegible. The ground among the roots was loose and dug up. Gregor wiped it away with his heavy boot revealing a stone slab.

   "This is the grave of Anthon." Gregor sat down beside it and motioned for Kent to do the same. "You see, when the knights before us came here, they fought for the land. To capture the peninsula they had to push the enemy back to the mainland, past this forest. It was a desperate time, and they made a last effort to push the enemy back. That was the Battle of the Forest.

   "One of the greatest knights fighting was Anthon. He had been my trainer when I was a squire. He passed that sword you used down to me before the battle."

   "What happened in the battle?" Kenton asked, though he thought he knew the answer.

   "It was a noble fight. They forced the enemy to the outskirts of the forest, near Tomtas. They practically won, but took it too far. Anthon was naïve, and let it get the better of him. They tried to take the city, but its walls held the attacks. We had to retreat, and Anthon was killed as the enemy chased us into the forest. He was buried here."

   The two were silent. Kent felt worried about Gregor. He seemed really depressed.

   "He would've been a great mentor and father to you, Kent." Greg sighed.

   Kenton turned to Greg. "Wait, Anthon was my father?!"

   "Yes, the sword should be yours ..."

  "Why didn't you ever tell me?!" Kent got to his feet and placed his hands over the bandage he had wrapped around his nose. "I can't believe this!"

   "Kent, I didn't want you hurt-"

   "Hurt! I know who my father is now, for heaven's sake!" Kenton took a minute, and calmed down. "He was a great man, Kent. You should be proud." The friends said nothing else that night, and settled around the tree to camp. Whatever lie ahead, Kenton was ready. He felt fulfilled, knowing now he carried on the legacy of a great father.

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