The Tale of Rostefoe

"Vulcan’s armour itself?" thought Rostefoe.

Harron’s jaw dropped wide open in disbelief. He looked into the judging eyes of Garvin and was unable to move. For the first time, Harron was afraid. He felt powerless. No use of force could save him from the chivalry of this knight.

Garvin slowly lifted up his helmet and replaced it on his head. This visage was worse to Harron, for it seemed that the steel face was looking straight through him, as if it had transformed into a mirror of his doomed soul.

Rostefoe trembled. He felt sorry for Harron. Perhaps no man deserved such a terrible fate. He shook himself and remembered that whatever was in store for the man he had brought upon himself.

The image of Harron before Garvin was frozen in time. A painting of an instant in life where the aggressor was now at the mercy of an almighty adjudicator. Rostefoe dared not blink. He would have missed it.

Before Harron could breathe his final breath, Garvin reached across his body, unsheathed his sword, and in one swing upward cut Harron in half, cleaving his right arm off along with his breast, an ear, and a good part of his skull.

The body stood there a moment after. The cut was so swift and clean that the force did not act upon it. It took gravity time to decide before it could bring the lifeless mass down onto the hard dirt road.

The two brothers were paralyzed with fear. Cederic could not move, his body would not function. The knife he concealed fell from his trembling fingers.

He turned and ran to his brother Robert and grabbed the mace from his hands. Garvin was steadily advancing upon him. Cederic violently lashed out, swinging wildly between screams of anger. Each blow met with full force, but for naught- the armour held without a scratch.

Garvin was on him then, his sword rising in the air with one hand and meeting the other above his head. With one swing, Cederic had fallen dead.

Only Robert remained. The youngest brother dropped to his knees and clasped his hands in prayer.

"Are you ready to die?"

"Hold!"

Garvin, in his pursuit of action, had become blind to the whereabouts of his fair Daphne and his diligent page, Bucky. As he turned to find the voice behind him, he was surprised to see them in the clutches of a familiar mob.

In crime, there are degrees of evil. In any time, in any place. In the scheme of villainy, the three brothers were of the lowest sort- base robbers and thugs, always- murderers sometimes. The men he observed in possession of his wife to be were of the highest- murderers who enjoyed killing.

And at the center of this vile mob stood their leader, a man known to Garvin.

He was called Ivan.

He was draped in long, flowing robes as black as the night like the hair on his head. His face was marred with lines of anguish and struggle. Ivan looked at Daphne, who was held fast beside him. Then he looked back at Garvin, seeing into his eyes through the steel of the helmet.

"Ivan."

"Yes, Ivan. It is me. Is it you?"

Garvin removed his helmet once again. He looked into the face of his adversary.

"Yes, it is you. The great Garvin. Knight of the Round? Too noble? Ahhh, so many of my men have you slain. So many plots dissipated in your presence. You, my long hated friend, have been forever a thorn in my side. But now, at last, I have you in a trap. For I know how much you love this sweet flower. After all, it was I you stole her from. Now, if you wouldn’t mind? Remove that magical armour of yours or she dies."