A Call To Arms

A tale of D'veen. A wounded soldier receives the aid of a mysterious old crone. But will she heal or harm him? Written for Bradley Ramsey's Madness and (May)hem Writing Challenge, day 22.

Credit: Chat GPT

It was cold in the tent. As he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the old crone leaning over him as she washed his bare body. Clutching at a blanket, he attempted to recover his dignity.

“Too late, young man,” she cackled. “Old Mimmy Whimsydabble sees all. Knows all. All of you, at any rate. Hee hee! Come now, I've got to get you nice and clean ere you go out again to get yourself killed. Sir Alastair calls for aid. King Barrister has brought him back from exile, you know.”

“I don't even know my own name,” he replied.

“It’ll come back to you, young man,” she said, “if you drink this. I've chanted a memory charm over it.”

He took a sip from the brown ceramic cup—and promptly spat it out.

“Try to forget how bad it tastes, and take a little more,” she said, with a crooked grin.

He looked at her, his eyebrows raised.

She pulled out a small stoneware jar and said, “I'll give you some honey if you drink it, young man. We need you to remember how to fight. The Verack Horde has the kingdom under siege, burning up anyone who tries to enter or leave. Their giant steel towers are everywhere.”

He looked her in the rheumy old eyes, and, seeing more kindness than malice therein, he gulped the vile concoction down.

She gave him the honey, which he greedily sucked out of the jar to wash away the taste of the disgusting potion.

Memories dogpiled him, crashing into each other like a rock slide. He fell back, overwhelmed, and let them sort themselves out.

“Well then, young man, what do you remember?” the old crone asked.

“My name is Henry Boarstusk, a soldier in Sir Alastair's retinue,” he replied. He pulled himself up. “They're all dead!”

“No, no,” said Mimmy. “I saved a few, I did. The ones who survived. One of their blue blasts sent you flying like a wounded metal bird, right up into the air.” She mimicked the motion with her right hand, using the empty cup to model his flight. “Then, down you came to earth, because you're not a bird at all, hee hee! But Mimmy went out to see who was alive, she did. They left me alone because I'm just an old woman, and I brought back all the men who weren't all burnt up. I piled up the dead in front of the castle and brought all the living to my tent. Most of them are gone now. Followed their lord into exile. They'll probably come back now that he's been recalled.”

“Where are my clothes?”

When she turned her back to bring them to him, he noticed a faint blue gleam on the lip of the honey jar. Fear-filled and fretful, he trembled and cried, “What is this treachery, Mimmy Whimsydabble? It is the blue light of the Verack Horde!”

“Yes,” she replied, with a crooked, snaggle-toothed grin. “Yes, the Verack light is in you now. Your whole body is a living suit of armour now. You are ready to protect us, young man. And I am the first of us to thank you for your service!”

Stunned, he sat there unprotesting as she yanked the blanket off, pulled his drawers on over his feet, and pulled them up. When her cold, skinny, wrinkled hands touched his inner thigh, he yelped and finished dressing himself. A loud crash assailed his ears as he pulled his other boot on. He wordlessly took the sword Mimmy gave him and ran out into the fray.

Bright blue light was arcing all around the towers where the Verack Horde had taken their positions.

Henry gasped as the knights he had known for years rushed forward, dealing blow for blow with equal strength.

“Boarstusk, where is your armour?” asked Lionel Badgerclaws, his sergeant. A bright blue shaft of light from a tower struck him full in the chest. With a flick of his sword, he obliterated it, reducing it to a bright blue flash that exploded into small blue sparks like a firework.

“I'm not sure I need one,” he replied. He flicked his sword at an enemy that looked like a large metal spider, which glowed blue and fired back, hitting him right in the middle. He stumbled backwards, then flicked his sword at it again. It disintegrated.

Suddenly, a great fiery blast knocked everyone flat.

Sir Alastair returned to the field, holding Neara’s hand. He found his men getting back onto their feet, looking around, dazed.

“My lord,” said Lionel, “what happened?”

“A miracle of deliverance,” he replied. “From whom, I cannot say, but I am grateful, for we were but evenly matched before the great blast struck. Did I see a man go out to fight with just a sword and no armour?”

“T’was Henry Boarstusk, my lord,” the sergeant replied, “but I see him no more. Mayhap he was burnt up in the blast.”

Sir Alastair frowned.

“It was not your doing,” said Neara, patting Sir Alastair's shoulder.

“Nor yours, I hope,” he murmured, hoping the sergeant would not overhear him. He looked back at Badgerclaw. “‘Tis a shame to lose a good man,” he said, pursing his lips, “but such are the fortunes of war.”

The End