Frederick Narrows

It was mid autumn, dark gray clouds hung over the land. The tree branches were twisted and wrapped to befitting a child's nightmare. It was a mountainous region. Cliffs faces, high steep hills, and large bluffs. Brown reddish dead leaves blew in the wind of the land. On edge of a high cliff sat a great claymore sword plunged deep in the ground. It was been sitting there for many years, untouched and no care. It rusted, vines were all engulfing it back into the earth. A man, on this day of October, Friday the 13th, came to make sure the sword still sat untouched.

His stained gauntlet held a scabbard with no sword inside. His steel breast-plate had been rusted. A torn up black cape blew in the wind. An emotion express was founded on the man as he stared at the sword in the ground. In his mid thirties, but yet his rich brown hair had turned to white. His chain boots scratched as he knelt on one knee, resting his left arm on his left leg. His head bowed low towards the sword. It was his sword.

Behind the sword, in the distance there was an open field. There sat an abandoned chapel. It had lost its brightness, and had became dark. Even the chapel was beginning to become engulfed by the earth. No man had set foot inside the dark chapel for years. But the chapel laid in ruins. A few walls still held together, but everything was rubble. Around the chapel were dead gardens and rotting houses. It was a small village, but a dying one now.

The sight was too heart racking, the man shut his eyes tightly. Stepping to his feet slowly, taking a moment before turning his back on the sword, the ruined chapel, and the rotting village. He couldn't stand the sight anymore. He sensed others hiding somewhere in the twisted wrapped forest. He had no sword, but his old rusting armor to protect himself. Out of the twisted forest came a single arrow. A few inches to the right, and the man would have been dead. He knows, even the most evil warrior had some sense of honor. No one would kill an unarmed man.

Three men stepped out of the twisted wrapped forest. Two were very skilled archers, with their long bows. And the center one, a swordsman, the leader. The archers had arrows ready to aim, pull, and fire. The swordsman held two finely made swords. He threw one sword to the feet of Frederick Narrows. But Frederick didn't bother looking at the sword at his feet. He merely walked towards the three men. The edge of a sword was pressed against Frederick's neck.

"Your not going anywhere, Prince..." the Swordsman threatened. Frederick merely smirked at the label, Prince. "Your rival, the Duke demands a score to settle."

"I have no rival!" Frederick shouted at the swordsman. He pushed the sword away and continued walking. But he stopped when he heard three set of feet walk further, towards the old sword. He gasped and turned. The swordsman's hand held the hilt of the old sword. Why can't the past stay in the past?

Frederick dashed to the sword given to him. The archers let both their arrows go, but none of them hit their target. The man was too quick for them to hit. With two precise slashes, the archer's throats were cut clean open. Before he could try strike down the swordsman, he laid two hands on the hilt of the old sword. Stopping Frederick in his tracks. Once again, his breath was stolen out of his lungs. His eyes afraid of what the swordsman plans on doing.

"You still have it, but now, will you promise to come now?"The swordsman smiled deeply, tightening his grip on the hilt. Frederick couldn't look away. "It shouldn't be that hard to kill a minor Duke. Since you are born of the longest line of kings in the world, Prince." The swordsman admired how easily he killed the two archers. Two simple slashes cut their throat clean up. Frederick sighed deeply, lowering his sword.

"I— promise," Frederick said solemnly.

On the tallest mountain, on the highest plateau is where four travelers stood staring at a great stone tablet. High above great clouds, the sun shined brightly. Old ruins of a long forgotten fortress. The plateau was once a great fortress held by the most greatest kings. The Kings of War they were called,as it states on the stone tablet. A long, the deepest lineage of kings on the known earth. Hear on the stone tablet, it shown the four travelers all those that was the first king, to the last.

"Hector Christopher..." Kent read, was the last known King of War, "he disappeared off of the face of the earth, with no known son to continue the long line." All four gasped, they were without luck. They came to the lost fortress to learn who might be next the King of War, the Warrior of Legend. But it had only told of what was already common knowledge to any grandfather telling their grandson the stories.

"No!" Rick said, pounding the stone tablet in all his fury. "The old man told us that the Old Fortress would give us answer on where to look. But this hasn't told us anything!... He lied." Rick pounding the stone tablet once more. Kent stepped down from the podium where the stone tablet sat. He was in disbelieve, like an orphan finding his real parents. He turned back to take another glance at the stone tablet.

"No, he didn't lie," Kent started, "the records are only incomplete." As all came around him, he exchanged stares with them all. "He's out there, only undetected, not found. We will find him. We only need to follow the rumors till we track him down!" Helen and Sara watched Kent, admiring him. So they now set out to find the Warrior of Legend, the next King of War. The man that can never be defeated in combat.

Frederick in his old rusty armor. He took a long look at the small arena that was to hold the tournament between King Rollon and King Hebert. Standing in sandy ring, before him his first opponent today. He was sent first, in hopes he would save lives of other warriors under King Hebert. All around him were commoners shouting, chanting his name. If he lost, King Hebert would be hung and King Rollon would be given the lands as promised.

His opponent was fully in caged in metal, holding a great long sword in both hands. Frederick looked down to see his fine steel sword, made exactly for him. Compared to his opponent, Frederick was barely armored. Chain boots, gauntlets, and a breast-plate with extended shoulder blades was the only metal on him. Giving him less weight, making him for agile to strikes. He smirked at his opponent. Only amateurs are fully armored.

"Mace! Flail!" Frederick shouted, in no time, a flail and mace were thrown to his feet. Stabbing his sword into the ground as he picked him his new weapons. He smiled greatly. He couldn't deny, he loved the rush and feel of man-to-man combat in the arena. He began swing his flail in his right. In his left, he examined the quality of his mace. He could only imagine what his opponent might be feeling at this moment. Fear. Fear of lose. To get to choose, life, death, or exile after being defeated.

Suddenly, the arena was silenced by hands of King Hebert. Setting the stage for the announcer. "Ladies and gentlemen, here now, in the Kingdom of Hebert. You are to witness a great tournament. In the red corner we have a Jack Vale, a knight of King Rollon!" The name was followed with appropriate boos. "And in the blue corner, man you all know very well. After a long fulfilled quest appointed by King Hebert. He has returned to save you all. I give you... Frederick Nar—rows!" And the arena erupted with thunderous applauses and cheers. Frederick forgot how much he was adored by people in these lands.

The arena fell dangerously quiet as the two combatants began the match. "Jack has been trained well. He won't fail his king." King Rollon argued with King Hebert. King Hebert merely mocked that statement.

Jack Vale charged in mindlessly. Frederick shook his head, what an amateur. Jack lunged his sword, Frederick merely stepped to side to avoid it. Swing his flail around, he twisted around his opponents long sword. He pulled it out jacks hands and he began beating his opponent with the mace. Concentrating all hits to the helm. Jack could do nothing. He soon tripped over his own feet. He shouted I give up. And the match was shortly over. Once again the arena erupted with thunderous applause.

Soon Jack's body was dragged away. And the next combatant came out. This one wearing quilted padded armor. Too light, but a lot more agile and quick moving, holding two daggers. Hmm...Frederick thought. And he shouted for a great long sword. What was thrown to him was a sword of almost five feet long the blade, the hilt a good foot. And it was exactly what Frederick needed for this match. He held the hilt with one hand, in his other hand, he gripped the blade of the sword. The match had began.

"Our best warrior in the lands, fifty matches undefeated," King Rollon smiled with pride.

"Best you say? Fifty matches you say?" King Hebert, mocking his fellow kinsmen with each question that needed no answering. "Well Frederick is almost two hundred matches undefeated. A rare find to have a warrior these days have that kind of record. Real lucky to have one seven hundred undefeated. Impossible to have one a thousand matches. I'm just glad King Maximus has no interest in my poor land." King Rollon tried to laugh, with his fellow kinsmen but now he was starting to regret started this tournament.

As King Rollon turned his attention back to the ring. He found himself watching the death of his best warrior. Frederick already had his opponent by the neck. A great long sword stabbing through the back of King Rollon's warrior. The sword busted out of the stomach, blood spilling everywhere. As the fallen warrior fell to his knees. Frederick took his opponents head in both hands. Time froze as King Rollon watched his greatest warrior's neck being snapped before his eyes and with it, his kingdom lost to King Hebert.

At that moment, Frederick smiled evilly. He does in enjoy this profession, despite what he might feel inside to quit. Before his opponent dropped in the bloody sand. He quickly pulled his sword out of his already dead opponent. And in that second, sliced the head of his opponent clean of his shoulders. Kicking the head of the fallen warriors head on the lap of King Rollon. Frederick wiped the blood of his sword and dropped as he left the arena.

King Hebert looked over to see King Rollon's pale white face, shocked at what he had just witness. "You must admire that Frederick Narrows," King Hebert started, "A cold blooded killer he is. Enjoys ripping out the hearts of his opponents, and stomping on them afterwards. Fueled by the fear of his opponents and the horror he can create with pain he causes them. He lives for the fear and the horror he can create with his opponent. He could be the Warrior of Legend." King Hebert had a great big smile on as he seen King Rollon's pale face.

"That little swine will pay for humiliating me like that!" King Rollon whispered angrily, he motioned for his royal guard. "Captain, make sure that warrior doesn't see the light of tomorrow..." The royal guard saluted.

"It will be done my king," and the royal guard was gone to ready a dozen men.

Frederick stumbled out of the bar at three in the morning. He had been sitting inside there since the tournament which ended the late afternoon. Only finally the bartender throw him out. He cursed back at the bartender, holding firmly his bottle of rye. Walking through some street like any other in this kingdom. But something didn't sit right with Frederick and he noticed the bartender go real quiet real quickly. The bartender shut the door calmly, a little click told Frederick the door was now locked shut.

He let go of the bottle of rye, began reaching for his sword. He found no sword, only seeing three blurry scabbard on his belt. Realizing only now, he had no sword. He cursed his name for not having a sword now. So loud, everyone in the kingdom would hear. And now something very bad was about to happen. Despite what was to come, certain death, Frederick didn't feel anything but the goodness of the rye. To his surprise, a sword lay down by his feet.

He lent down to grab one of the three blurry swords that lay before his feet. He tried the middle, his only gripped dirt. So he tried the one on the right, nope, only more stupid dirt. Now, its gotta be the left, nope, only more stupid dirt. What the heck! Oh, theres a forth above the three. He lent back up, only to find almost two dozen blurry assassins surrounding him. He tried to steady his sword as he turned all around, getting a good look at each one of them. Noting that its the forth image of them above the three. He smiled in his drunken daze, waving his sword around at the enemy.

One assassin charged in from behind, Frederick followed the disturbed running foot steps. Through his left arm and side came a sword, stabbing the assassin square in the heart. In that moment, Frederick pulled the sword out of the assassin's body, turned and sliced his head clean off. Another assassin came running after he found his comrade die. The dead body hadn't fallen yet. So, Frederick kicked the dead body against the charging assassin. He lunged quickly behind the dead body.

The dead body made the assassin stumble as he pushed it off of him. After the dead body, came a sword plunging into the assassin's gut. The sword busting out through back, blood spilled all over others beyond him. And soon all others came swinging. Frederick merely parried and slash, parry and slash, parry and slash. He made his blade caught all four images of the same swinging sword. Soon all there was only one left. He smiled evilly. And strangely, the last assassin remembered seeing that same smile at the arena.

Thankfully, the rye was starting to wear off and Frederick was starting to see fine again. It was less blurry than before, and there was only two of the same assassin. The assassin was frozen. If all his comrades had no chance taking this drunken warrior when they attacked all at once. Taking on half a dozen of attackers that came all at once, and being drunk. Now he only one stands in his path for a nice sleep and some enjoy while he sobers up. The assassin knew he was dead.

The last assassin takes his sword in both hands, it shakes terribly. Frederick smiles even more, enjoying this as he strides him so calmly and relaxed. His sword held so lightly as a twig. The assassin takes a foolish strike. Quickly, Frederick blocked the strike, taking his enemies blade in his gauntlet. His sword came down on the blade as it were a great hammer. Both swords broke on impact! The assassin took a deep horrified breath. He backed away, but he couldn't go anywhere if he liked. Frederick had already a strong grip on the assassin's wrist.

In a mere second, Frederick pulled the assassin's arm. Slamming his elbow on the hard steel shoulder blade of Frederick. The assassin shrieked in horror of his broken elbow. Something came over Frederick's heart, making him growl with pleasure. The assassin dropped down, helpless trying to crawl away from the monster. Frederick still held his broken sword. In his mind, anything sharp, doesn't matter what length, can still cause sweet horrified screams and cries.

The rye was running out fast and he soon realized what he was doing. He dropped the broken sword. His face became dangerously white. "What am I doing?" Frederick yelled. "Get out of here you, before I—go!" The assassin didn't need to be told twice. The only one left of a half strong dozen, killed by a drunken warrior. All respect was lost. Frederick crawled to the nearest wall, where he buried his face in his hand, weeping in silence.