I wrote this as a teenager in the 1980s. I found a copy on my PC along with other stories I wrote. I was heavily influenced by Jack Vance, particularly Dying Earth.
The Vanquished Cavalier
I
Acts of bravery did they wonderfully excel,
Our Francish souls will fully swell,
When we know in the Warmlands they dwell,
And none would remember the red night that fell.
They had arrived too late.
Huzwin of Erdanath, noble scion of that faded bastion, drew his destrier to a halt amidst a glade bathed in the corpse-light of a waning sun. There, propped like a broken idol beneath the languorous sweep of a venerable tree, sat Custan of Sareth, the last and lamented. His once-lustrous panoply of argent plate lay perforated a dozenfold, rivulets of sanguine ruin meandering across its battered surfaces, lending a morbid patina to the knight’s countenance. About him sprawled the chitinous soldiery of the Tenebrous Lord, contorted in death’s final grimace, their chitin fractured and ichor spilled—a grotesque wreath encircling the fallen champion.
Huzwin dismounted with solemn grace, his boots finding uncertain purchase amidst the blood-soaked loam. He knelt, cradling Custan’s helm-shrouded head, and beheld the warrior’s eyes—lusterless now, like gems from which the light had ebbed, awaiting only the closing.
Custan’s lips stirred, parting as if to speak; at first, no utterance came. Then, borne on the faintest breath, words emerged, thinned and winnowed by the departing vital flame:
“Huzwin… thou hast come… at last…”
Huzwin inclined his head, the gesture both assent and elegy.
“They broke upon us… as water breaches the Hedge of Spears… we held… we held… but the breach was inevitable…” A tremor flickered across Custan’s mouth, a tremor half-smile, half-spasm. “I have paid, Huzwin. I… have… paid…”
The knight’s gaze swept the charnel scene—the heaped carapaces, the riven limbs, the ruin writ large in butcher’s script. And yet Custan’s voice returned, more wistful than despairing:
“Vallombrosa is lost… the Host of the Chthonic Wyrm descended as night itself upon the citadel… with wyrmlings afire and Pentagorn the Elucidant weaving his dread geometries… the walls crumbled, the brave perished, the Immutable Logos seemed distant…”
He paused; a single tear traced the furrow of his bloodied cheek.
“Go… Huzwin… go to Erdanath… save what little remains… I have failed…”
“No.” Huzwin’s voice, gentle yet adamant, entwined defiance and lamentation. “No, Custan of Sareth. Thou hast not failed. Nay—thou hast conquered. In the Warmlands we shall convene again, when all reckonings are settled. Go hence in peace.”
And with that benediction, Huzwin placed a reverent kiss upon the fevered brow, as Custan’s breath fluttered once… twice… and fled beyond the reach of mortal reckoning.
II
Honour to those who in life did lead,
Defined and guarded the Holy seed,
Never betraying what is right,
Consistent and just with all their might.
The battle had turned rancid, as milk soured under an uncaring sun.
From the seething ranks of the chitinous soldiery of the Tenebrous Lord emerged a singular figure—a rider cloaked in blacker black, his face arranged in that expressionless grimace peculiar to functionaries long habituated to grim errands. His steed, an indigo-scaled steed whose breath exhaled small sulphuric plumes, pawed the trampled turf with restless disdain.
He approached Custan of Sareth and his valiant tri-centurion—a phalanx no longer, but rather a Hedge of Spears, bristling defiantly though encircled by the abyss.
“Peace unto thee,” intoned the herald, in tones so bland they seemed culled from an exhausted lexicon. “Uxar Thull, Ilkhan of the Vert Sea, extends magnanimity. Terms of surrender await thy consideration—”
“No.” Custan’s word cracked like a whip. “No peace. No surrender.”
The herald paused, his brows knitting with the faintest shadow of perplexity. “But—Ilkhan Uxar’s terms are… prodigious. Lavish even.”
Custan’s gaze narrowed, his mouth curling into a scornful arc. “I shall not render my sword, nor the honor of Vallombrosa, unto the chitinous horde of some spawnling despot. Return to thy master and supplicate at his chitinous hooves, for I have no commerce with such.”
The herald grimaced—more from procedural frustration than wounded pride. “Surrender is thy sole avenue to prolongation. The sky will darken beneath such a hail of barbs that daylight itself shall flee.”
Custan’s laughter rang out—a clear, burnished sound, startling amidst the funeral hush. “Good! Then we shall fight in that gracious shade!”
From behind the herald, a new figure emerged, parting the soldiers as a knife parts curd: a thin, robed man, whose aspect bore none of the savage musculature of his compatriots, but whose gait suggested a serpentine malice. His cowl veiled much, but from its recesses glimmered the faint phosphor of malignant intent.
“Custan of Sareth,” rasped the figure, his sibilant whisper more insinuation than sound, “your predicament invites reconsideration. The odds, as they stand, are neither kind nor just. Surely prudence counsels fealty.”
Custan regarded the man askance. “And who speaks thus in the name of Uxar Thull?”
A thin smile slithered from the shadowed hood. “I am Pentagorn the Elucidant. Sorcerer. Astronomer of forbidden orbs. Scholar of the Ruined Constellations. You have heard my name, perchance?”
Custan’s lips pressed thin. “Aye. And the ill that clings to it.”
At this, Pentagorn raised a single withered hand, and lo! a gale arose, unbidden and monstrous, stripping trees as wheat before the scythe, hurling carcasses into a grotesque rain, causing the river itself to retreat momentarily in dread. And yet Pentagorn stood untouched, his robe unstirred.
When the winds subsided, his voice was silk wrapped around bone. “This is a mere token. I am servant to the Host of the Chthonic Wyrm, whose appetite devours worlds entire. Swear fealty, Custan, and thy kingdom shall not merely endure—but flourish.”
Custan’s gaze swept the besieged horizon; he inhaled the perfume of his homeland’s roses, the sight of hills traced in delicate green arabesques, the call of the sky’s last birds. And though sorrow shadowed his countenance, his resolve gleamed unbroken.
“I am sworn captive to the Immutable Logos,” he intoned, his voice steady as the vault of heaven. “I cannot, and I will not, betray the highest vow. Here we shall stand; we can do no other.”
Pentagorn’s lips recoiled from unseen teeth. “Ahh…” he hissed, and at the mere utterance of that name—Immutable Logos—his form quivered, his breath rasped, his frame convulsed in paroxysm. “Fool… fool… you doom yourself…”
The sorcerer staggered backward, disappearing once more into the folds of the chitinous soldiery.
The herald, less emboldened, managed a nod. “I shall relay your message to Ilkhan Uxar.”
As he turned, Custan called after him: “Bid thy master to burn what he worships, and to remember what he once revered—for in alliance with the Fallen Stars, no man lives long.”
And so the herald vanished into the grim tapestry of the horde.
Custan turned to his warriors, their faces etched in the chiaroscuro of impending ruin. He knew the weight pressing their souls—the sorcerer’s spectacle had unsettled their innermost bulwarks. Yet they were his, and he theirs, bound in an unyielding fraternity of arms.
He spoke softly: “Steel thy spirits. The Hedge of Spears must hold.”
III
The drummer beat and piper blew,
Three hundred marched straight and true,
Every sword arc built them heavenly treasure,
Very soon they would enjoy it in full measure.
The battle had turned rancid, as milk soured under an uncaring sun.
From the seething ranks of the chitinous soldiery of the Tenebrous Lord emerged a singular figure—a rider cloaked in blacker black, his face arranged in that expressionless grimace peculiar to functionaries long habituated to grim errands. His steed, an indigo-scaled steed whose breath exhaled small sulphuric plumes, pawed the trampled turf with restless disdain.
He approached Custan of Sareth and his valiant tri-centurion—a phalanx no longer, but rather a Hedge of Spears, bristling defiantly though encircled by the abyss.
“Peace unto thee,” intoned the herald, in tones so bland they seemed culled from an exhausted lexicon. “Uxar Thull, Ilkhan of the Vert Sea, extends magnanimity. Terms of surrender await thy consideration—”
“No.” Custan’s word cracked like a whip. “No peace. No surrender.”
The herald paused, his brows knitting with the faintest shadow of perplexity. “But—Ilkhan Uxar’s terms are… prodigious. Lavish even.”
Custan’s gaze narrowed, his mouth curling into a scornful arc. “I shall not render my sword, nor the honor of Vallombrosa, unto the chitinous horde of some spawnling despot. Return to thy master and supplicate at his chitinous hooves, for I have no commerce with such.”
The herald grimaced—more from procedural frustration than wounded pride. “Surrender is thy sole avenue to prolongation. The sky will darken beneath such a hail of barbs that daylight itself shall flee.”
Custan’s laughter rang out—a clear, burnished sound, startling amidst the funeral hush. “Good! Then we shall fight in that gracious shade!”
From behind the herald, a new figure emerged, parting the soldiers as a knife parts curd: a thin, robed man, whose aspect bore none of the savage musculature of his compatriots, but whose gait suggested a serpentine malice. His cowl veiled much, but from its recesses glimmered the faint phosphor of malignant intent.
“Custan of Sareth,” rasped the figure, his sibilant whisper more insinuation than sound, “your predicament invites reconsideration. The odds, as they stand, are neither kind nor just. Surely prudence counsels fealty.”
Custan regarded the man askance. “And who speaks thus in the name of Uxar Thull?”
A thin smile slithered from the shadowed hood. “I am Pentagorn the Elucidant. Sorcerer. Astronomer of forbidden orbs. Scholar of the Ruined Constellations. You have heard my name, perchance?”
Custan’s lips pressed thin. “Aye. And the ill that clings to it.”
At this, Pentagorn raised a single withered hand, and lo! a gale arose, unbidden and monstrous, stripping trees as wheat before the scythe, hurling carcasses into a grotesque rain, causing the river itself to retreat momentarily in dread. And yet Pentagorn stood untouched, his robe unstirred.
When the winds subsided, his voice was silk wrapped around bone. “This is a mere token. I am servant to the Host of the Chthonic Wyrm, whose appetite devours worlds entire. Swear fealty, Custan, and thy kingdom shall not merely endure—but flourish.”
Custan’s gaze swept the besieged horizon; he inhaled the perfume of his homeland’s roses, the sight of hills traced in delicate green arabesques, the call of the sky’s last birds. And though sorrow shadowed his countenance, his resolve gleamed unbroken.
“I am sworn captive to the Immutable Logos,” he intoned, his voice steady as the vault of heaven. “I cannot, and I will not, betray the highest vow. Here we shall stand; we can do no other.”
Pentagorn’s lips recoiled from unseen teeth. “Ahh…” he hissed, and at the mere utterance of that name—Immutable Logos—his form quivered, his breath rasped, his frame convulsed in paroxysm. “Fool… fool… you doom yourself…”
The sorcerer staggered backward, disappearing once more into the folds of the chitinous soldiery.
The herald, less emboldened, managed a nod. “I shall relay your message to Ilkhan Uxar.”
As he turned, Custan called after him: “Bid thy master to burn what he worships, and to remember what he once revered—for in alliance with the Fallen Stars, no man lives long.”
And so the herald vanished into the grim tapestry of the horde.
Custan turned to his warriors, their faces etched in the chiaroscuro of impending ruin. He knew the weight pressing their souls—the sorcerer’s spectacle had unsettled their innermost bulwarks. Yet they were his, and he theirs, bound in an unyielding fraternity of arms.
He spoke softly: “Steel thy spirits. The Hedge of Spears must hold.”
IV
Mottled rows of blue and armour grey,
Finally gave to Thule’s dark array,
The Francish king was last to fall,
That the dark men would breakthrough after all.
The Hedge of Spears, that living thicket of steel and sinew, pressed ever onward, even as the chitinous soldiery of the Tenebrous Lord recoiled, yielding inch by begrudging inch. Custan of Sareth, battered yet unbending, carved a radiant path through the press of bodies, his ancestral blade flashing like a shard of the first dawn.
But from the rearward lines of the Host of the Chthonic Wyrm there came a signal—subtle, serpentine, and malign. Horns blared, each note a sneer at mortal defiance; an unseen hand drew back the tide. The monstrous warriors peeled away, retreating beyond bowshot.
Custan halted, chest heaving, sword sagging in wearied grip. Before him lay the ruin of his men—those noble sons of Vallombrosa who had pressed their charge beyond mortal expectation, now strewn like spent torches along the field. Yet Custan remained, and a flicker of disbelief stirred in his breast: why had the tide receded?
And then, through the rents of the dissolving horde, came a lone rider: Uxar Thull himself, seated astride a beast that resembled some archaic dragon of glass and iron, its wings unfurled like pennants of despair. Thull’s visage was pale beneath his lacquered helm, his lips curved in a smile that mistook magnanimity for mercy.
He spoke, his voice silken as the whispers of graveworms:
“Custan of Sareth, you who are last scion of Vallombrosa’s lapsed glories—your courage is a jewel, and it would shame me to grind it beneath the heel of inevitability. Yield now, and I shall grant you and your remnant safe passage. Return to Aquilona; carry to them the certainty of defeat. What need have you to squander valor on the altar of extinction?”
Custan straightened, his reply measured and unbowed:
“Mercy from the tongue of the Chthonic Wyrm’s servant is but a poisoned chalice. I reject your clemency, Uxar Thull. Let your arrows adjudicate what your honeyed words conceal.”
A shadow flickered behind Thull—a silhouette neither wholly human nor wholly describable. Pentagorn the Elucidant, robed in symbols too ancient for recall, glided forward, his hood veiling a visage that seemed woven from serpentine laughter and charred parchment.
He whispered into Thull’s ear, his words coils of implication.
Thull’s smile narrowed.
“So be it,” he intoned, retreating with a gesture.
The monstrous host parted like an oozing wound. From their ranks stepped archers clad in chitin and rags, their bows strung with sinew from unnamed beasts. In eerie synchrony, they raised their weapons, drawing taut.
Custan gave no order; there was no need. Those who remained beside him had already begun to sing once more—not the chant of defiance, but a quieter, deeper hymn, woven from threads of resignation and transcendence:
“We have no place to run and no place to hide;
Feel the pull of the afterlife; the Immortals watch us with pride.”
The heavens dimmed. A sullen wind crawled across Necessity Field, rustling the blood-soaked grass, carrying away the last fragile scents of summer.
Then the sky darkened utterly beneath a volley of arrows so vast they occluded the sun—an eclipse wrought of iron and malice.
Each shaft found its mark. Armor rang, split, shattered. Flesh yielded. Voices faltered mid-hymn.
Custan staggered, his sword a lodestar above his collapsing form. Blood seeped through rents in his silvered mail, and his vision blurred as though the world itself had been sketched anew by a trembling hand.
Yet his blade remained aloft until his knees buckled, and even then, it fell with a grace that mocked gravity.
Pentagorn, from his vantage behind the line, observed impassively. “The Immutable Logos shall not count this a loss,” he mused, more to himself than any.
Uxar Thull approached, dismounting from his draconic steed. He stood over Custan’s crumpled body, sword unsheathed, poised for the final severance.
But as Thull raised his weapon, a curious stillness overtook him. The dying king’s gaze, luminous despite death’s approach, fixed him with a serenity that no conqueror’s blade could annul.
A moment passed.
A pause that lingered as though all the world held its breath.
And then Custan’s sword, gripped by a trembling yet unyielding hand, soared upward in a last act of magnificent futility—hurtling toward Pentagorn like a shard of cosmic defiance.
The sorcerer, startled, side-stepped with serpentine grace. The great blade buried itself in the soil where Pentagorn had stood, its iron hilt quivering like the last word of a silenced poet.
Custan’s arm fell limp. His body leaned back against an ancient tree, its gnarled roots entwining him as if the earth itself sought to cradle its fallen steward.
Uxar Thull lowered his sword without striking.
“Leave him,” Thull murmured. “The land has claimed him already.”
Pentagorn’s hood inclined. “A fitting epitaph.”
And so they withdrew, the Host of the Chthonic Wyrm flowing eastward like a river returning to its black source.
Behind them, Necessity Field lay quiet—save for the wind, which carried Custan’s name toward the fading sun, to the last towers of Aquilona, where a queen stood weeping.
For somewhere, a king was dead.
