Graynelore Read Online Free PDF Page A

their deaths this day, and as many return to their houses with sorely broken bodies, new scars in the making. It was ever so.
    We were all of us waiting upon the Old-man’s arrival.
    I was already growing restless, not eager for the fight; but it is better to be about the business than to be standing in endless contemplation of it. I am not a thinking man. On a whim, I let my eyes carry up towards the heavens. The sky looked burdened and worried this day. A long way above the Heel Stone, a ragged, windswept horde of black birds, winged scavengers – crows most likely – wheeled silently between broken banks of steel grey cloud and patches of glaring sunlight. It seemed the birds were already well aware of our gathering, already expectant of things to come. I saw their presence as a good omen. They were welcome company. Whatever the outcome for men this day, theirs would be a feast and nothing left to waste. It was more than easy pickings; it was a gorging fit for the fortunes. And the fortunes liked a spectacle.
    On the ground there was a sudden new commotion, new arrivals, and come at a measured trot.
    Here, at last! I thought.
    Bright, silvered armour caught in the sunlight. A sword unsheathed, glinted. There were a handful of hobby-horses in this Riding, but there were many more full-sized horses. And not warhorses; but white and grey prancing ponies, stretched out in a formal line. Upon these, men were sat, not dressed for war, but rather like…well, like women, in their fancy drapes and embroidered finery. Their multicoloured skirts tailored for the show.
    At the head of this procession, with his war sword lifted from its scabbard, rode The Graynelord, Old-man Wishard, upon his immaculately groomed silver-grey hobb. Immediately behind him followed four men-at-arms, with brightly coloured banners waving from their spears, demanding attention. The remainder of the line, the greater number, was his Council. These were the men who sat at his dinner table, who took shelter in his Stronghold, and protection from his arm. These were his advisers, his cunning men. These were his politicians, scholars, and scribes. Not a true bodyguard then.
    None of the Council was dressed for a battle. Rather, gentle men, in want of a frivolous day’s sport. They were never meant for a fight. This arrival was more of a pageant; a cocksure display. The Graynelord was showing off to us.
    Around me, part of the general throng began to fall back, to make way, allowing The Graynelord’s entourage to advance and take up a position on the elevated ground just beyond the Heel Stone, where everyone could see them.
    Only Cloggie-Unthank and Fibra, the Old-man’s younger brothers, stood up on their hobbs and held their ground at his approach. This was not meant as a threat. It was a statement of rank, rather than a signal of defiance. They were not about to confront him. An unspoken gesture of acknowledgement passed briefly between the three. There were no words of welcome.
    I sat quietly upon my hobby-horse and waited for the address I knew would soon follow. (There is a strict order to these events.) There was another flash of sunlight against silvered armour as The Graynelord turned his hobb about to face the gathering. And then, in a strong voice, he began to bellow:
    ‘What is the Graynelore?’ he asked. ‘Let me tell you…I am the Graynelore.’ The Old-man paused there, looked about purposefully, perhaps to catch the eye of his two brothers, as if he expected an argument. When none came he repeated his statement more loudly: ‘I am the Graynelore.’ Then, another gap, not for a response this time, but for respectful silence…‘This sword I carry is the Graynelore!’ He lifted his war sword above his head and held it there, steady, for all to see. ‘The Graynelore is not a place, though the land bears its name. It is not a matter of lines drawn upon a map. The Graynelore is not a belief, nor is it an ideal…I am the Graynelore.’