The Knight's Eyes

17: THE WALK

Sir Alsindad kept his gaze to the window across the room where the white light daylight moped inside. A slight headache lingered along the back of his head, cringing down his neck, and shoulders. No matter which way he stretched his neck the aggravating ache would not go away.

He assumed it had built up overnight as he lied unable to sleep. His head was overcrowded and his nerves made his stomach bubble unnaturally. In twenty-four hours his precious kingdom would face another Summer Terror. The people would instantly know the convoy had not succeeded and were most likely dead.

Yet, here he was, lying in a bed, in a strange man's house, only miles away from the witch's castle. He could feel his leg, clearer than the day he woke, and most of his wounds and aches had healed and stopped. If the huntsman would ask again how did he feel, he'd tell him excellent because it was the definite truth.

He openly sighed and rested his head against the headboard.

What was Walta doing? How was his father? He wished he could see them one last time. He had seen a lot of men die in the past few days by that bloody witch. Even his loyal horse Rome, may he rest in peace. Did Nightingale enjoy terrorizing and killing people? Could he still finish the quest and kill the witch to stop other Summer Terrors?

It's not over yet, right?

He glanced at the cracked door then studied the many weaponry and clothing stored in the room. Most of them held the Terra's symbol, while others held those of the other three kingdoms.

"All of this can't be yours," he murmured. A long dagger sat on a table across the room still in its sheath. A thought came to him suddenly, "Where is my armor?"

Alsin sat up and rubbed a hand down his bandaged leg. He felt around for the end of the dressing tucked tightly in the midst of the wrap beside his buddy. He freed his leg letting it gasp for the fresh air around it. Compared to his other leg, it was chalkier with sand of dead skin sprinkling onto the bed sheets. He glanced at the door and listened. Silence. He slid his legs over the right side of the bed and prayed he would not fall. The wooden floor was cold in contrast to the muggy heat.

"One, two, three," he huffed and pushed himself onto his feet. The room spun for a second. The muscles in both of his legs cringed into knots sending shrieks of cramps into his groin.

"Shucks," he spat at the floor holding out his hands to catch his balance. The last thing he wanted to do was fall back on the bed, which would worsen the spasms.

For a slight minute, he let the spasms do its course. As they subsided leaving a residue of throbs, he took his first step; right foot forward. The floor rotated under his feet and the back of his head broke into a frenzy. He froze, squeezing his eyes close, and clenching his teeth.

"Damn it," he whispered, stealing another glance at the cracked door. "Foot at a time. A foot at a time."

Surprisingly, his lower body followed his out-loud encouragements. Each small step extended further until his steps was wide enough to have him stand in front of the table. The dagger stared up at him, tempting him to take it. He grinned holding out a hand for the dagger's black handle with its silver swirls carved into its leather.

The floor rumbled and his hand froze. The doorknob was grabbed and the door pushed open. Alsin spun around. "Ugh," he growled at Galiathan's swiftness.

Galiathan folded his arms across his broad chest and shook his head like a father disapproving of his son's exam grade.

"Why're you shakin' your head?"

"You humor me."

"Is that so?" Alsin's shoulders dropped wishing he were back in Terra, far away from this nonsense. He'd rather suffer the Summer Terror than be here, in the middle of nowhere, with this strange mystical giant doing nothing.