Category: Arts & Life

Errant – Part 3

The Hudsonian Newspaper

Liam May || Issue 14 || February 25, 2025

The knight picked up his stick and shifted a log in the fire patiently awaiting the stranger’s monologue. The ranger sized up the knight one last time before beginning his analysis. “You must be skilled in battle, otherwise you wouldn’t have accepted a Hunt this difficult. You’re not overconfident, your mannerisms disprove that.” The ranger gestured to the knight’s shield, “You’re on the younger side for a Crested Knight, so you must have done something heroic to earn that.” The ranger paused, “Unless it isn’t your Crest because it isn’t a rooster rampant, it’s a Cockatrice rampant.” He smiled, “How did I do, Knight?” The knight folded his arms across his chest. “Fairly spot on.” The ranger’s grin widened, “Now a better question is why a knight Sworn to the Order Cockatrice is helping some poor village get rid of a beastie.” The knight shrugged, “They offered some money, and I was in a pinch.” The ranger lowered himself to the ground, closed his eyes, and leaned back against the log. “What a coincidence,” he muttered. He cracked open an eye, “Your turn.” The ranger frowned as the knight had paused mid-movement, the warrior scanning the tree line with careful and smooth motion. The ranger tilted his head, listening, but the only sound besides the crackling fire was the soft rustle of pine needles in the chill breeze. The horse shifted nervously, pawing at the ground. The knight slowly shifted into a crouch, coiled like a spring, his body taut with potential violence. The ranger didn’t move his head but silently picked up his bow and arrows. As the archer quickly tied the quiver to his belt, he whispered, “What is it?” The knight focused his senses and inhaled deeply. The air hung heavy with the scent of pine smoke and damp earth, tinged with the faint grease of the rabbit they had eaten. And yet there was the fainter, predatory musk scent of a Hunter. He couldn’t quite place the exact location, but it
was enough for now. When he opened his eyes, his hazel irises almost glowed amber in the firelight, something savage flaring deep in the pupils as he drew the mace from his belt. “We are surrounded.” And the warrior bared his teeth in a grin for the first time that night.

Short Story: Errent Quest

The Hudsonian Newspaper

Liam May || Issue 12 || February 4, 2025

It was dark in the woods. Not tar pitch black or grey fog, but a frosty darkness. A crisp full moon hung low over the trees, a pale bloated orb, like an engorged whale swimming a sea of stars. The perfect dark was cracked only by the celestial lights, and a single lone campfire. In a small clearing of ever greens, a man and his steed huddled next to the burning logs. It wasn’t a cold of deep boreal winter, but it was a night that was chilly with the death of summer. The man wore a simple half plate, with a pelt draped across his shoulders for warmth. His weapons were simple, on his back was a Longsword, engraved
on its hilt a rampant rooster. At his side rested a mace. Leaning against the log he sat on was a shield, with a similar design of a rooster, gold on a black field. The horse was average in size, perhaps some 14 hands high, but sticky and covered with shaggy hair. A well-worn saddle with bags rested on its back, and no rope tied it, but it stood patiently by the fire, ears flicking around the clearing. It nuzzled the man’s arm and snorted. The warrior sighed and reached into a pouch at his waist, drawing out
a small carrot, which he promptly handed to his mount. The horse happily took it from his hands and shuffled away, chewing contentedly. The knight looked up to the sky, tracing constellations and the path of the moon. He sighed, expelling a visible cloud of vapor into the cold air. Snow was not on the ground but it would be soon, and by then he needed to buy out of this valley. He poked the fire with a
stick, sending a quick shot of sparks into the sky. The knight shifted a log closer to a split-open potato that rested near the embers. As he leaned closer to the fire, the warhorse pawed the ground and shook
its head nervously. The knight looked up sharply and scanned the edge of the firelight, his eyes straining to sort shadows from monsters. His hand rested on his mace with a careful, practiced ease.
“Who goes there?” He asked, voice level and calm. “If you are but a solitary bandit, you will not survive the first exchange, and if your numbers have surrounded me, choose the first to die.” From the edge of the forest stepped a figure in brown and green, his mottled cloak blending into the foliage. His hands were raised but his cowl hid his face. The knight looked at the newcomer warily, still ready for another to rush from the trees. “I mean no harm friend,” the stranger said, pulling down his hood. A ghost of a smile was on the new man’s face, his short scraggly beard and hair were black. A scar on his cheek looked more like the work of a blade than an accident, and the way he carried himself quietly stated capability. The knight’s hand never left his weapon. “How do I know your friends aren’t waiting for me to get comfortable before stabbing me in the back.” Slowly the other drew open his cloak, showing a wineskin hanging from his belt. The knight’s eyes did not miss the short sword that hung above it either. “A bandit wouldn’t share his mead before robbing a mark.”