From: bassman@u.washington.edu (Ogdred Weary)
Subject: Donny
Date: 14 Jul 1994 08:48:46 GMT

Here's another one I wrote a while ago and did a bit of editing to recently.
Tell me what you think!

Copyright 7/14/94 by Gregory Katz

	The grass of the valley was lush and bright with life as the two armies
approached each other.  Gawain kept a light hand on the reins of his chestnut
mount, though he knew the animal was too well trained to need much guidance.
The warhorse was picking up on the familiar tension, though, trying to pick up
its pace, to engage the dark forces marching nearer from the other end of this
nameless valley.  Gawain restrained the horse from getting ahead of the rest of
his riders, though he would have liked to snap the reins and ride his surging
mount into the enemy with a shout to the beat of the massive war drums that now
kept the infantry's heels snapping down in heavy unison.  "Soon",  he told
himself, "Be calm.  In moments..."
	Gawain could hear the snapping of his proud lancers' banner just to his
rear and the clink of the hammered-iron swords and chain mail vests of the
infantry amassed to his sides and behind.  Ahead the standards of Duke Astares
whipped in the strengthening breeze; the heads of fallen foes bobbed on banner-
poles and weaved through the forest of spears like barely visible, spindly
giants.  The Black Duke's men were exceptionally blood-thirsty, even in times
such as these, and many a commander had decided on flight rather than face his
armored barbarians.
	Not today, though.  Today there would be no retreat.
	And then it was time.  Gawain lifted the gilt horn from its leather
saddlepouch and blew a sharp blast.  As his army, a thousand strong, halted and
snapped weapons into place for the charge, the black-armored line facing him
broke into a run, a thunderous chant rising from their midst.  The ground
between Gawain and the Duke's line narrowed to a hundred yards, then eighty,
then fifty, when the knight blew again on his horn, three staccato bursts.
Then he was charging, urging his mount forward, faster, faster, knees digging
the chestnut's flanks and fingers clamped around the heavy lance.  Behind him
came the clatter of a thousand hooves and the roar of his infantry.
	The first flight of arrows sped from behind the Duke's front line as
Gawain and his cavalry crashed into their foes.  Gawain took the heavy impact
of his lance in his shoulder and then released it, a giant Dukesman impaled
through the chest and thrown backwards against his comrades.  Then his sword
was out, and he was among the din of the two lines, crashed together like two
ceans' surf.  The blood pounded in his ears as he swung the great broadsword to
protect his steed from a spear, and then back, through the helmet and mail of a
footsoldier.  The blade stuck in a Dukesman's head; Gawain wrenched it free and
brought it around to stop the axe of a huge rider who had somehow appeared
through the crush and clamor of infantry and spears and shortswords.  One of
Gawain's spearmen tried to take down the knight's black mount, but the big
horseman splintered the spear's haft just below the iron-capped point with his
heavy axe and brought the weapon whistling towards Gawain.  As the battle raged
around them the two knights brought their weapons together with a ring that
sounded over the tumult of weapons and men.  The black knight was strong,
Gawain knew; blows that would have numbed another man's arm to the elbow were
turned aside again and again, and the axe whirled through arcs only a thick
wrist could manage.
	As Gawain tried again for an opening he had to admit that he admired
his opponent.  Here was a man worth fighting, with skill to test the limits of
Gawain's abilities and the might to withstand his ancestral blade.  Could it
be? wondered Gawain.  Could this be the Duke himself?
	And then he was on his back, his arms whipping back to lift himself
from the muddied earth and meeting a padded mattress instead.  Gawain jerked
himself into a sitting position as the black knight swung his axe down on the
musty adjustable bed and was gone, leaving a tinny audio feed of screaming
horses in the ears of a disoriented old man, clutching at his temples for the
padded headband and the cord underneath it.
	The old man's heart was beating hard and, it seemed to him,
irregularly.  His eyes dilated in the yellow lamplight and he groped for the
Off pad on his sense-player.  He found the button with well-practiced ease, his
left hand steadying itself on the edge of the player's case and tapping the pad
with the side of his wrinkled thumb.  His right hand pulled the headband off;
the elastic cord jerked underneath it as the plug came free of its socket and
flopped against his wrist.
	As the glare of the lamp faded the old man remembered his name:  Donny.
He had a last name, but it didn't matter to him much right now, so he let it
drop.  His mind was still full of the duel, and he had to know why the sense-
player had interrupted him.  He ached for the feel of the sword in his hand and
the young body strong and limber.
	The old man's gain implants took in the wilted shouts of street hawkers
struggling in the heat down on the street below.  Donny bent over the player
and squinted at the read-out:  Timed Out For Nourishment, Elapsed Run-Time 4.41
Hours.  Save Current Position?  (Y/N)
	Donny slapped the N pad and felt a pain in his chest.  He wanted to be
back on the chestnut again, back in the reality of war, instead of this cramped
apartment.  He stood on shaky legs and dropped the headband and cord to the
mattress, then stepped over a pile of clothes to a tired old fridge that hummed
and whined in the 100-degree April heat.  With an effort Donny jerked open the
sticky door and bent down to catch the cool air escaping.  After a moment, he
reached for a styrofoam box of teriyaki cubes on the lowest shelf and his back
twinged.  Donny straightened up quickly; it would be no good to have his back
go out again.  And me only fifty-one!,  he thought with a touch of the hysteria
that threatened to well up out of him and take over his legs and run to the
window and Jump...
	But no.  That was what he'd bought the gun for.  He retreated to the
crate near his old bed with the cold teriyaki in one hand and got out the
pistol hidden behind it with the other.  Its grip was cooler than the air; it
felt good to have a weapon again.
	After a while Donny put the gun back in its hiding place and thought
about what to do next.  A glance at the clock on the sense-player told him that
he had a little over seven hours before his six-to-three shift came around.
	I gotta sleep,  Donny thought, as he grabbed fingerfuls of teriyaki-
darkened rice and small cubes of God-knows-what kind of meat and stuffed them
ravenously into his mouth.  His legs were quivering now, and sweat tickled as
it ran down his bare back.  The dark horseman's mount reared in his mind and
the great axe scythed through the air.
	Fuck it.  I'll just slap on a Kaffderm before work.  One more battle.
	This time, before he plugged in, Donny remembered to deactivate the
bio-monitors.  No interruptions,  he thought as a strange ache bloomed behind
his eyes.  I'll just play one more...