Red Days Dawning

Rose G

Vanion jerked at one final buckle on his breastplate and swung up onto the grey horse next to him. Aron tossed his head, nickering with impatience as the knight settled into his saddle. Around the Pandion motherhouse, silence reigned except for the snap -snap of pennants in the breeze and drumming of hooves on damp turf. The knight in black armour, the grey charger that bore him, they were the only things that moved through the mist of dawn.

And in the distance, at the limit of sight, came another knight, mounted on a bay horse that had seen too many years. The old Preceptor's silver hair shone as he removed his helmet in acknowledgment of Vanion.

They waited- watching knights, visiting noblemen, Sephrenia – waited for this duel that would determine leadership of the Pandions. Keram, the old Preceptor, strong and adroit but slowing and failing with age, and Vanion, brash with courage, so skilful but so young; no more than twenty. One of them would fail in this test and by the laws, have no further chance at the post. The Church would decide formally, but in truth, they would follow no other than the one who triumphed here.

They walked their horses, armour and spurs jingling. Vanion had braided blood red roses into Aron's mane and tail, the same rose that was the emblem on his shield. Keram bore no sigil, no token of his rank and his bay strode in easy, measured strides. Old man and old horse, they would need their breath in battle now.

The mist shifted slightly, shielding Aron and Vanion from Keram's sight. Vanion heeled his horse, drove him into a gallop. The lance was steady in his hand. In effortless flight, the pair bore down on Keram.

Silence. Even the wind was still. Just the drumming of hooves. Not a breath, not a movement except that implacable, ceaseless gallop and the knight rising to stand in his stirrups.

Aron crashed into the old bay, mighty chest against old shoulder. Vanion's lance thrust against Keram's ribs, unhorsing him even as the bay staggered and fell to his knees. The old man did nothing to defend himself; rolled clumsily to his feet as Vanion whirled Aron round to face him again.

'Why, Keram? Why did you not fight?' All those assembled heard Vanion's cry, anguished and despairing.

'Because I would never raise a hand against one of my brothers, unlike you.'

'You and I have fought on the training fields. Why not today?'

'Training is not fighting. I knew today that you wanted to fight for the Preceptorship; saw that when you braided Aron's mane. And I would not lift a hand in anger against you.'

The old Preceptor bowed his head, removed his helmet again as he caught as his horse's reins. 'If the Pandion Knights have declined to such a stage where one is ready to ride against another, they have changed from the men I knew. I am clearly too old, too meek, to lead them. Vanion, if you had only waited a while, they would have replaced me – probably with you.

'But instead, you fought. That tradition is age old, not illegal but long-unused. So I yield to one younger and stronger than me, one who is not afraid to overturn traditions. May you serve well and may your reign not be ended by a younger man of your Order riding against you, as mine has.'

Vanion raised one hand to his visor in salute and then turned Aron away. This was what he had always wanted, but not like this. A silent crowd watched him ride into his destiny, stripped of all his honour. The new Preceptor looked across at the tiny women whom he already loved, and she turned her eyes away from him, disgusted. The sun rose above the horizon, dying his black armour red.