To the south

The water spread widely in the darkness, though almost inaudibly. Countless flocks of birds nested on the shore, and only a few soared in the darkness, and then, far above, their powerful voices rang out, announcing the approach of the Sea.

The man, alone on the sandy shore, had long stood motionless, gazing northward. In the darkness of night, though he enjoyed sharp eyesight, he couldn't see the other bank of the Great River. But that wasn't his intention; he reached farther, to where the brown savannah gave way to green meadows, situated above a much narrower but also stronger river, cascading between two mighty mountain ranges. Where the green meadows had been trampled by countless hordes of soldiers, some of his own kind, and some against whom they had set out to fight. Where mighty peoples had built magnificent stone fortresses that would soon collapse. Where there was death and destruction.

Had he turned away from the river, he still wouldn't have been able to see much among the tall grasses illuminated only by the starlight. Yet he knew what was moving far away on the savannah. Dozens of figures like his: tall, muscular, black men, their eyes glowing in the darkness, their tongues red, hidden in grim black faces. Most had scarlet jerkins torn, their brass-scale armor bent and cracked, and their black hair, braided with gold thread, was soaked in blood. The blood of their brethren. One of the Mounts was also with them. Legs as thick as trees, ears spread like tents, and a long nose like a snake about to spring. Curved, horn-like fangs were adorned with golden ribbons, but they were also caked with dried blood. At that moment, his small red eyes were surely blazing with anger—he was searching for his Rider. But the one who, in the moments of battle frenzy, had been the only one who had a chance to tame the beast, was now standing on the bank of the Great River, far beyond the range of the Mount's smell or sight.

The man wondered if his companions had set off, as he had ordered, at a rapid march south, or if they had only gone a short distance, fearing to find themselves alone with a furious monster without a Rider to tame it. They had traveled long without rest. They had broken away from one of the delayed marauders, bringing up the rear of the mighty Southern Army. Much brotherly blood had been shed in the process, because the tribe's chosen war chieftain did not recognize the rights of those who refused to fight. He could not, or would not, understand that this was not a war of the southern peoples, and certainly not the side they had blinded by the Dark Lord's power and tempted by his promises. Still, the vast majority of the brave and powerful warriors blindly believed in their leaders and joyfully followed them into battle, longing for true war, a challenge far greater than hunting even the wildest creatures. Most of the fleeing men had shed human blood many times before, so even being stained with the blood of their own kind didn't faze them. The man standing by the river had killed a man for the first time.

He was about to turn away when he suddenly saw a lighter spot on the dark surface of the water—something floating with the current toward the sea. A moment later, the spot revealed itself to be a small, shimmering, gray boat of strange shape, with a high-raised stern. A pale glow surrounded it. The boat drifted downstream, empty of oars or helm. It sank deep, as if heavily laden, and indeed, it seemed almost full of the transparent water from which the pale light emanated. As he drew closer, the Rider saw that a knight lay sleeping in the water: a tall man with beautiful and noble features, long dark hair combed to his shoulders, and gray eyes. A white diamond sparkled in a silver chain around his neck, and beneath his motionless head lay a gray hood and cloak. A beautiful gold belt, as if woven from gold leaves, gleamed brightly, as did the helmet at his side and the remains of a shattered sword in his lap. Though his body was covered with a multitude of wounds, the knight's figure radiated beauty and majesty. With his beautiful posture and attire, his calm face, unmarked by the stain of death, he seemed one of the mighty Lords of the West from ancient legends. Not those cruel warriors who plundered the coasts and built their fortresses there, but forgotten sages and kings from ancient times who had visited the southern lands long before the warlike invaders, aiding and teaching, not plundering. The black man was convinced this must be one of the rulers of the northern lands, whom the valiant warriors of the south were to fight, as the Dark Lord desired. Now, the knight's majesty and beauty seemed to confirm the wisdom of the decision to flee and promised the peoples of the south a hard fight against the northern knights.

Despite everything, for a moment, as he gazed at the gleaming belt, the man's heart was tempted to jump onto a boat passing by and claim this beautiful trophy... How highly respected he would be among his own people if he claimed to have defeated a mighty white warrior in battle, displaying his belt as proof. Men would look at him with envy, women with respect, and with every ounce of the magnificent ornament, he could buy countless pigs and oxen and marry the most beautiful women. And if, as a token of repentance, he presented the belt as a gift to the supreme leader, he could even count on a pardon for escaping from a military expedition and being accepted back into the community...

The man quickly shook off these thoughts. He drew a long knife from its sheath and plunged it into the ground. He knelt on one knee and whispered a litany customarily sung to honor deceased heroes. The mysterious knight must have been a formidable warrior... if not a prince himself!

After a moment, he rose and, no longer looking at the boat carrying the dead body, set off after his men. South, home. A long, dangerous journey lay ahead, the greatest obstacle undoubtedly posed by warriors from his own tribe, eager for the blood of deserters. However, the rider had a strange premonition that few would return from this terrible war to their home villages. When he had penetrated far enough into the tall grass, he thought he heard the hollow, muffled sound of a horn from the river. It was surely the god of war summoning the warrior from the boat. Perhaps this honor would be bestowed upon the knight of the north only through a brief prayer from the one supposed to be his enemy.

Meanwhile, the boat drifted peacefully down the Great River until the waters spread into a wide estuary, finally reaching the open sea. Then, the eternal sea currents carried the knight far to the West.