The Pilgrimage of the One Armed Knight

The thunder was deafening and the rain hit hard. The only sound between the monstrous thunder was that of the droplets clanging against the metal of my armour. My feet pushed through the slush and the mud came halfway up my legs, yet they did not grow tired. I pressed on through the raging storm, through the mud, through the voice that told me to turn back.

Far in the distance stood a leviathan. A colossal mountain struck out of the ground, a gargantuan beast jumping somewhere high above the clouds. The mountain had shadowed over the lands since before the first king ruled. As lightning and thunder danced around the sky, like the jester in a court, their flashes were a candle being lit and snuffed out at the same moment. As the candle lit, the peak of the mountain could be seen through the dark clouds that shrouded it.

I had heard stories of the mountain. It was insurmountable. No man could climb it and return home to claim the glory. The ancient king had sent three of his best knights, those who had slain dragons and taken kingdoms, to stand on that great height, and speak the king’s name with glory and honour.

That mountain was my destination, my end. It had plagued my memory, and had whispered in my dreams. I had no orders from the king, no hand of a maiden to win, no desire for riches or glory or boons. I only had a desire to ascend.

I waded across the flooded farmlands, the howling winds sent a freeze through my armour, but it did not halt me. The drenching rain poured over me like a waterfall, yet I did not cease.

The sun had set many hours prior, and the moon was hidden behind angry clouds. Its light trying to push through like a child opening castle doors, powerless. Darkness like this, I had only experienced once before, on the battlefield. Darkness like this, I had only experienced after I had lost what was mine. I looked down at my left arm, wrapped in cloth that was now soaked from ceaseless raindrops, as it ended just after the elbow.

Once or twice, some had called me the spawn of the devil. Every time I had picked up my spoon to eat, or drew my blade, all with my left hand, they spat foulness at me, called me sinister. I had learnt, over time, that the spears they threw from their mouths could not pierce me. I had nourished a sense of pride in myself about my uniqueness. Like a garden, I had nurtured and grown a sense of importance in it. A garden that was burnt, wilted, plagued - When I had lost my arm, I had lost myself.

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