Knight

Court had forgotten where it had sent Knight. Squire had quit to settle down in some village. So here then was Knight, alone,

propped up against a deciduous tree, his armor bleeding rust, and more rain coming. Sitting in his own waste and pain, Knight peered

blearily through the visor at sodden, green Druidic hills. Cold rain ripped remaining leaves from branches. The horse stood

a good way off, dry and napping under an evergreen, one rear foot cocked like a catapult. Knight felt the jail of armor locking.

A chill rattled his flesh. He thought of his murdering, the blood and terror, was about to ask forgiveness once more when he died.