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The Chains of Vengeance

“Do you wish to live, Rollant?” An ethereal whisper wove through the din of battle, cutting through the clash of steel and the cries of the dying.

The whisper tickled Rollant’s ears like a wisp of wind carrying words not meant for the living. Rollant moaned through strained breaths and shattered lungs.

“Angel of death, take your enemy,” he rasped with unfocused eyes, searching the skies for God’s messenger. He assumed the origin of the whisper was divine—a sign from the heavens. But only fallen bodies strewn across the blood-soaked ground were in sight.

His gaze, blurred by the edge of death, drifted to the silhouette of Arnoul, his brother-in-arms, looming over him.

The cries of the Saracen enemies echoed in the distance but faded to the slowing heartbeat in his ears.

Rollant grasped at the fragments of the past moments, trying to piece together the fatal betrayal and pleading with God on why He let him fall to Arnoul’s blade.

Arnoul, the man who had shared his food, his cot, his horse—the long years spent training, fighting, and saving each other— he was the one who struck him down?

Rollant’s mail-clad fingers, clumsy and weak, drifted toward the wound on his neck. Blood poured warm against his chainmail coif. Breath and blood warred within him—both desperate to escape his broken body.

“Forgive me, old friend,” Arnoul muttered softly, though too soft for the weight of his sin. He wiped his blade clean with Rollant’s surcoat, the sacred white stained red. “But your lands, your title—they were ever meant to be mine.”

Rollant wanted to scream, but his voice failed him.

Life fled from him as the sun perched as a bloodied halo above the walls of Damascus.

The ruddy sunlight cascaded onto the once-proud Crusader banners, now torn, ragged, and scorched by fire.

The frayed threads fluttered in the smoky air as a last stand for God and the Holy Lands.

Memories of his beloved wife and precious daughter flashed before his eyes.

Amée’s gentle touch warmed his cheek, and her laughter echoed in their home tucked away in the Chartreuse mountains outside of Lyon, France.

Cateline’s tiny hand reached for his to walk by his side in their garden.

Dread far deeper than the pain in his flesh pierced his heart at the thought of leaving them with traitors such as Arnoul.

“Do you wish to live?” The whisper came again, clearer this time—a woman’s voice, cold and thin. Not a messenger of God.

Rollant pushed through the blurry vision and focused on Arnoul’s voice that planted him in the brutal present.

“Do you wonder why I have cut you down?” Arnoul shook his head and gritted his teeth.

Rollant gasped for air but narrowed his eyes in hatred.

Arnoul nodded. “A knight as brave as you deserves an answer.” He leaned upon his heavy, engraved sword.

“Our noble King Louis the Young sees you alone in all things. He has refused to favor the rest of us. Too much glory upon your head. Too much favor from the king.” Arnoul’s words wavered as though he struggled with what he’d done, but his eyes remained steady.

He lifted his boot from Rollant’s crushed hand, the bones broken and useless from Rollant’s last desperate attempt to defend himself.

“God have mercy on my soul; His will be done,” Arnoul murmured. “But life shall be better without you to claim all the King’s favor. For now, I may have a chance to cause the King’s eyes to shine. For now, the King may greet me with a smile and remember my name.”

Rollant stared in disgust at the man who had once been like a brother to him.

Arnoul kneeled and placed a heavy hand alongside Rollant’s cheek—a cruel reminder of their false friendship and loyalty once shared on the battlefield. “Sorrow fills me, my friend. Be with our Lord, Rollant. I shall see that your wife and daughter be properly cared for, as is right.”

A spew of venom desired to leap from Rollant’s tongue into the cursed man’s face.

His lips twitched with words unsaid. How dare Arnoul, a traitor, a betrayer, speak of honor and care?

The twisted sense of righteousness showcased Arnoul’s greed and decay.

How had Rollant not seen through to the envy beneath his mask?

A choked, blood-filled gasp flew over Rollant’s lips.

Amée’s face, flawless in its memory, appeared before him.

Pearl-white skin, her almond eyes gazing at him as they always had—full of love.

He could almost hear her voice and feel the warmth of her hand in his.

Cateline, too. She would grow into a woman without him.

She would never again feel his arms around her in protection or love.

If a Saracen had struck him down, he would have surrendered his soul to the Lord, finding peace in the knowledge his death was in God’s honor.

But not like this—betrayed by a selfish, greedy act.

He was a righteous warrior for the crown of France, and he deserved an honorable death! Arnoul mocked him and stole it all.

Something feral surged in Rollant’s chest with a last, wretched pulse of life. With what strength remained, Rollant swung his fist upward, connecting with Arnoul’s throat.

The betrayer slumped back, clutching his neck, and coughed with a violent rasp. He snarled as he regained his breath. He twisted his head to sort out the pain.

“Still so much fight in you, even at the end,” Arnoul said through coughs and a broken voice. “Our battle shall be worse with your absence.”

Darkness clawed at Rollant’s vision. His breath came in shallow gasps.

His strength faded. No words could be spoken.

He wished a weapon had been blessed to his hand, so to drive it through Arnoul’s chest. But both hands lay limp and powerless in the dirt—unable to move anymore.

Yet he clung to life in actionless rage.

It piled up in his heart and weighed heavy on his back teeth.

The world around him grew eerily silent, as if the dark tendrils of death reached for him. A cold stillness replaced the action of battle. Arnoul’s footsteps sounded distant and hollow as he moved away.

Amée’s face was the last vision he held, but it warped into a bright light.

The whisper came a third time in an alluring croon. “Do you wish to live, Rollant?”

Rollant’s heart stilled. His mind, once consumed with thoughts of vengeance, filled with the faces of his wife and daughter. The thought of leaving them vulnerable made his soul cry out in despair. He would do anything— anything —to stay with them.

A dark figure loomed over him with celestial hair floating like sunrays behind her head.

Her eyes shimmered like distant stars. The coldness came with her presence and lay heavy on Rollant’s body.

“A knight so brave and just should not endure such treachery. A blameless one the King needs. I am his sorceress, a guardian for his lineage, and I choose you.”

She presented an offer of salvation laced with cruelty: “I shall give you eternal life if you give your years in service of the French crown.”

The weight of the offer pressed down on him. Eternal life was meant for the righteous with the Lord in Heaven, not in this world.

Her wintry fingers wrapped around his heart and squeezed, cutting his debate short.

“Do you desire life?” she asked, softer but more insistent.

It came from a place beyond death, beyond the light of God.

It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t right. Eternal life came from God, not from dark forces.

Whether his acceptance of the sorceress’ offer would sever him from his creator forever stilled his soul.

But knowing Arnoul would take his precious Amée and raise Cateline sat raw in his belly.

If he accepted the offer, he would live and ensure Amée and Cateline were protected and loved, but after their passing, he would never see them again.

But if Arnoul, who succumbed to Lucifer’s temptations, took care of them, their souls might be lost, having been led by Arnoul’s ill-fated guidance.

Icy tendrils crept down his spine, and the light faded the more he thought.

The enigma pressed against his chest, tightening it and taking away his breath.

The sorceress would only present this offer once.

He had one choice: natural or unnatural, right or wrong, survival or surrender.

Questions plagued him: How long was eternity?

How long until he went mad after Amée and Cateline were stolen by time?

Would he age but never die? The consequences of eternity could not be weighed.

If it could not be weighed, then his answer should be no.

But yet, she dangled his family before him like a golden dream.

Who would care for Amée and Cateline? Him or Arnoul?

“Make your choice or death it shall be, and with your wife, Arnoul shall replace thee,” she crooned in a sultry whisper. Her form held him, frozen, suspended between life and death.

There would be no peace, no reunion in Heaven, only endless years trapped in a body that refused to die. And yet, it was the sacrifice he was willing to make for his family.

“Yes,” he said with closed eyes without further thought of the consequences that would surely come. The moment the word slipped from his tongue, the release of death was snatched away. His chest seized, filling with a breath not his own. Its piercing freeze burned its way down his throat.

The sorceress’ celestial hair faded and transformed as the world twisted and sharpened in focus. Her presence faded into the folds of darkness with a simple whisper, “It is done, Chevalier Rollant de Montvieux.”