The Historian’s Novel

Heimdall had seen his fair share of war. Havoc Strightsworth was not a man you could follow without getting up to your ankles in blood, and a life serving his liege had beat into Heimdall’s bones that wherever dragons went, trouble would follow. Never complacent, always prepared, he felt quite proud for having survived for so long. Despite always secretly wishing for a life that required only paper and ink to do battle: A dream he had once thought within his grasp for a time… Until Ophelia Strightsworth’s unfortunate passing.

For years, Heimdall toiled to keep his and Havoc’s childish dream of building a sanctuary for the common folk, alive and well. But like the spiral of depression afflicting his Lord, there was only so much he could do to keep the ride going.

Truth be told, Heimdall had been approaching his wits end on the day Amelia began acting funny. Yet before he knew it, what ought to have been a weekly session of secretly guarding their house’s poorly disguised young miss as she went to the bookstore had somehow become a whirlwind strong enough to re-ignite the heart of a Dragon. Inspiring a hope in Heimdall that Havoc had at long last returned and would soon right what was wrong.

Heimdall glanced at the Coliseum undergoing heavy construction. He leaned back in his saddle, contemplating how best to channel his nostalgic frustrations as he once again read the letter Havoc had sent to the Strightsworth estate, upon which was written only a request to arrive in the Velvetican Kingdom’s capital city.

‘I need you for something.’

“Give me a break,” Heimdall said in awe, as he urged his nervous horse closer to the immense sink-hole a group of workers were pouring an endless amount of dirt and gravel into. “Do I even want to know why?” he mused, after confirming the hole did not have a bottom in sight.

“Excuse me! Hello? Are you of the house Strightsworth?” a chipper voice suddenly asked.

Neck-reining his horse, Heimdall found a lass holding a sign with his name crudely written upon it. “That’s us. Who sent you?” he asked, hoping whatever this was would be more useful than the abandoned camp he had earlier passed.

“Mail carrier sir,” replied the girl, who riffled through her mailbag to hand over a note, “Got a hefty tip to stand here these last two days. I’m not complaining but I’ll tell you my feet are killing me silly. Mind taking this from me? I’d like to go get some sleep.”

“Your hard-work is appreciated,” Heimdall said, giving the girl a few extra coins for her troubles. Before he turned his attention to the note on which had been stamped of all things, the Strightsworth’s family seal. Above a single sentence that caused him to rip the paper in half.

‘I want you to fight for Amelia’s honor.’

Heimdall struggled to stop his mouth from twitching in anger, for it meant both his rage towards the Marquess of Rutherford still had a reason to exist… and that Havoc felt a need to stay where he was instead of coming to give his instructions in person.

He hoped he was wrong. “Where was this sent from?” Heimdall asked.

“Boss said the delivery came from the Duke of Winchester himself!” answered the girl proudly, “Were you invited to the duel? I don’t mean to pry, it’s just… I’d hurry if I were you, it’s starting at noon!”

His worries compounded. What was she talking about? The Duke of Winchester? Those who had accompanied Heimdall on the ride up readied their steeds to receive his instructions.

“We’re leaving!” shouted Heimdall, deciding to first and foremost, ensure Amelia’s safety. Knowing full well how limited he was in his capacity to help in a world littered with monsters of mysterious lineages and all-powerful wizards. “To the Duke of Winchester’s estate!”

**

Many questions and worries had come and gone by the time Heimdall sighted the Duke of Winchester’s Mansion. Were his knives sharp enough to cut flesh? Did his poisons remain vicious enough to coagulate blood? Why hadn’t he thought to bring his stash of fire-retardant oils as well? Fighting for Amelia’s honor might sound to a layman as if a proper duel had been challenged, but any sort of fight between Havoc and the Duke in Heimdall’s eyes, would eventually devolve into nothing more than two house sized mutts going at the other’s throat like they were born and raised on the streets.

It was times like this Heimdall felt thankful for his status as a mere servant. For once the gloves were thrown, the time for advising and overthinking was over.

Who knew? Maybe things weren’t even that bad. Maybe the Duke of Winchester had gotten fed up with Havoc ignoring his letters and had decided to bring Amelia back into his household by force… Although, that wouldn’t explain why Havoc would bring up his daughter’s ‘honor’ of all things.

Heimdall spotted a pair of patrolling knights between his group and the distant assembly of colorful tents dotting the horizon in a circular pattern. Leading his horse off road and onto the grass, Heimdall made for the knights who took notice of his approach. One of them, lifted his hand in friendly greeting. Had it been a sword raised instead, Heimdal would have run the man over.

“H-have you an invitation?” the Knight asked with a hiccup, his words slurred, and his stance on close inspection, was kept mostly upright only thanks to the spear he had wrapped himself around.

“Right here,” Heimdall answered, off-put by the lack of professionalism. Sliding down from his horse, he thrust Havoc’s letter against the knight’s chest. Then, without waiting for permission, continued onwards, towards the festivities in full sway.

He signaled his men under the fluttering of three different flags, and together they entered the throng of attendants that only grew denser the further they pressed. “Get out of our way!” Heimdall barked, as his escort formed a triangle to help split a path through the crowd, bringing them ever closer to where the cheering and hollering was at its loudest. Their advance only stopped upon reaching a roped-off enclosure, which made for a make-shift dueling ground on which two knights were already waiting, below twin wooden spectator stands that had been constructed for the viewing pleasure of the nobility in attendance.

Squinting, Heimdall found Havoc seated next to the Duke of Winchester. Acting surprisingly amicable, the men were one row above and behind Amelia, as lovely as a smiling flower in her bright summer dress. Heimdall nearly melted out of relief, yet his heart strangled that relaxation to death before it could take over. Despite how happy Amelia currently looked, he refused to rest easy. Not while her attendants, one of whom Heimdall didn’t recognise, appeared to be giving Amelia so much attention and care with a mixture of parasols and snacks. Not until he had heard first hand why Amelia now held in the crook of her arm what looked like a child.

Heimdall’s heart froze. As if Ophelia’s spirit were returning from heaven to chastise him for not having done enough for her daughter. He blinked twice, time enough to reason out there was no way Amelia could have somehow given birth.

A doll then. A very well-made doll perhaps, but not his worst fears come to life. Only, he still worried, since Amelia had not needed to carry around the comfort of a doll in many a year.

His suspicions found the Marquess of Rutherford and his entourage seated in the second raised viewing stand. “Forget killing the son, I should have gone for the father,” Heimdall said under his breath, convinced as he was the noble had something to do with the spectacle, he now found himself watching.

The crowd cheered. Heimdall followed the noise to where Amelia had stood up. In her hands, a handkerchief, dyed purple of all colors. Let go into the wind, the handkerchief soared over the field, descending with a flutter to where the Knight wearing a mixture of red and blue caught it in a fist. He wrapped it around his arm, adjusted his shield, then pointed his sword’s tip towards the other knight who readied his two-handed mace.

The favor of a lady, marked the clash of steel against steel.

Confused, for Heimdall had been convinced there had been something going on between Amelia and the lady in waiting she had ‘stumbled upon’, Heimdall listened in on the crowd to uncover a name, quickly finding within the chants a potential match with a youth who just so happened to be on his very own list of potential recruits.

Heimdall couldn’t help but wonder why Havoc would let a greenhorn fight under their banner. He hadn’t been able to identify the Marquess’s knight who began swinging his mace again and again against the shield Stanton held strong against, but from how he moved, the man was clearly a veteran.

“Quit hiding, you rat!” Screamed the Marquess of Rutherford’s Knight, “I was promised a fight! So why have they sent out a child?!”

Stanton kept silent, deftly diverting each attack against him away by the side. His sword arm helping to support his shield, the young man looked once behind him to check how many more steps he could take backwards before reaching the ropes. Seeing there weren’t many, Stanton made a clumsy attempt to strike back at his opponent, only for his sword to glance off the Knight’s sturdy chest-piece.

Heimdall began analyzing Stanton. Did the boy hope to tired his opponent out? Was he testing for weak-points? Heimdall didn’t think either guess was correct. No, from how Stanton was awkwardly moving, it was almost as if he were recently injured. Not to mention…

“You idiot,” Heimdall muttered towards Havoc, as Stanton’s foot slipped and the boy avoided the Knight’s mace only by falling, “You can’t give a gladiator a full set of armor and a slap on the back. He won’t know how to move.”

Havoc’s face met Heimdall’s from across the distance while Stanton played at being a turtle.

“Wrong,” Havoc mouthed, before Stanton abandoned both his sword and his shield, to entangled his feet between his opponent and bring the man down to his level.

Their fight, devolved into a ground-based grapple contest for control of the mace. Four hands on the weapons hamper, an elbow struck Stanton’s head. In turn Stanton bashed his head against his foe’s visor. Their pristine equipment quickly became covered in dirt and stains of grass as they tumbled around. While the crowd’s demand for more violence grew cruder and louder with every dent made.

Heimdall checked in on Amelia, whose clasped hands made her look like a princess praying for the victory of her knight. Helpless, Heimdall sighed, knowing it fell on him to make sure the audience’s jeering didn’t stray and begin wondering why his master’s daughter looked like a maiden in love. Raising his hands to his mouth, Heimdall drew in a large breath of air, and let loose a cry.

“Yeah! Fuck him up Stanton! I want to see you shove his head in the dirt!”

His men, trusting there was a reason for his outburst, quickly followed Heimdall’s example. “Break his leg kid!” shouted one, “Tear out his spine!” hollered another, creating a ripple of supportive insults that spread out and around the arena, as every knight under the Duke of Winchester and Havoc’s banner began throwing banter, completing the distraction.

Surprisingly, the disparaging remarks seemed to invigorate Stanton.

“They sent out a kid because you’re not worth anything else!” Stanton yelled, abandoning his competition for the mace to jam his thumbs into the slits of the Knight’s visor and begin digging deep

The Knight howled and fought back with everything that he had. His mace pounded Stanton, who slammed the knight’s head against the ground in response, with just enough force to finish gouging the knight.

With the blinded knight left to shriek and writhe in the dirt, Stanton knocked the man’s mace away with a kick. Stumbling away to retrieve his sword, Stanton turned towards the stands as a gladiator would if the King happened to be in attendance. Havoc in return bared his teeth in a bloodthirsty, savage grin of approval.

Without hesitation, in a single downwards thrust through a gurgling throat that soon found its silence, Stanton executed the Marquess of Rutherford’s Knight.

A trumpet blared to declare the victory his. And as Stanton removed his own helmet, revealing his handsomely bruised face, Heimdall directed his men to jump over the ropes and carry their newest member away to be treated, towards a striped red and white tent.

**

Inside the tent, Heimdall found not only an injured Stanton, but also his liege. They were making idle conversation about how best to wrestle, of all things, while two knights aided the starry-eyed boy in removing the rest of his armor.

“Ah… And here comes the second,” Havoc said in greeting, upon noticing Heimdall.

It was enough for Heimdall to extrapolate why it was he had been called.

“You-called-me-here-for-a-duel?” he shouted, getting all up in Havoc’s face, “Why me?!”

“Because we needed three people,” Havoc said, which caused Heimdall’s face to turn such a violent shade of red that the knight’s watching silently excused themselves from the tent.

“Although…” continued Havoc, “I mostly called you here to help comfort Amelia who encountered a misfortune I failed to prevent.”

Heimdall’s heart sunk. “Is she alright?” he managed, needing to know at least that much.

“I don’t know,” answered Havoc, his voice strained with an uncertainty seldom found in the man, “but I intend to use this duel to send a message to those who might still wish to harm her… Especially since my daughter has begun talking of visions…”

Heimdall felt the unease an of existential dread find root in his heart.

“You don’t mean God—”

Havoc moved like lightning, covering Heimdall’s mouth before he could finish.

“I don’t know how involved he is,” Havoc said, “Neither are we going to tempt him with our words in this place. We will stay within the boundaries of the game he has set without asking questions. I might have decided against seeking him out, but I will not risk anything else… Right now, all I care for is the fact attention that will might soon fall on my daughter.”

Heimdall agreed with Havoc’s choice. Enduring a storm would be much easier than trying to fight it. “And him?” he asked, gesturing with his head to where Stanton perked up.

“A knew family knight. He is of good stock, as you just saw,” Havoc said, confirming Heimdall’s guess. “And… He helped my daughter avoid a miserable end my lack of oversight caused. When you have the time, make arrangements for a few more squires as well. I would imagine the boy has made several friends in his line of work who would be willing to fulfill such positions.”

“Duly noted,” Heimdall said, looking upon Stanton in a much better light.

“H-Hi there!” Stanton said, “You… You must be Heimdall!” he said, wiping at the corner of his eyes as he clearly tried not to, “I can’t tell you how amazed I am to be able to meet the Dragon’s informant in person!”

The boy’s attempt to remain professional despite Havoc’s confirmation that his friends would be free men was admirable. Though Heimdall did feel a bit self-conscious, since it had been a while since someone had mentioned that nickname.

“Yes… Well… Good to meet you as well, I suppose,” Heimdall said, as they heard a trumpet resound. “Shoot, I really did come at the last minute. Is this a best out of five? Is this the result of the hearing? How screwed are we if I lose?”

“No. Yes. Best out of three.” Havoc said, which took Heimdall completely off guard. He had been absolutely certain of his guess, but once again had somehow managed to underestimate how idiotic his master could be when it came down to planning.

Heimdall’s eyes narrowed “You can’t be serious.”

“Boy. You. Me.” Havoc said, pointing in order, “That makes three.”

“I’m not asking what bloody order we’re fighting in!” Heimdall gripped loudly, “Why am I even here if it’s a best out of three?!”

“I needed someone who I could trust not to die to set the stage for my entrance.”

Heimdall breathed in deeply, then he grabbed a standing torch and threw it on the floor in anger, “Stanton just did that!” he said, stomping it out, “Why can’t you just go next and finish the job? If Amelia’s vulnerable, we should be wrapping this up!”

Havoc pointed to the tent’s entrance. The wind blew, fluttering it just wide enough for the trio to catch a glimpse of a flag bearing the Marquess of Rutehrford’s crest in the distance.

“You… will give them hope.” Havoc said, practically growling, like a beast who was struggling to hold itself back.

“Then this is…”

“A tour de force,” finished Havoc, “To ensure no more vermin mistake my daughter as food.”

Heimdall reassessed. Considering how accident-prone Amelia could be, he found himself in agreement…

Though he didn’t appreciate the idea of merely setting the stage with a loss.