Summer Young Writers Anthology - University at Albany

THE MOON WAS SETTING SWIFTLY AS
Baldor made his last patrol atop the
wall. He was eager and impatient for
a much needed sleep in the
chambers below, for he had leered
tirelessly over the city and into the
vastness beyond for many long
hours. The day had been hot, and
the frigid sting of night was
welcome, even relished, in deserts
such as these. An endless expanse of
sand and rock yawned in every
direction, humbling the vain and
dwarfing the powerful, intimidating
the most seasoned travelers. Within
the borders of this parched and
empty land there sat a fortress, low
and broad and crafted from desert
rock. Though only thrice the height
of a man, the walls were thick and
stretched like wings from afar, their
ends lost in the blazing heat as they
brushed one’s limits of sight.
Enemies were few of late, and
such great armies as were once
mustered there were no longer
needed or maintained. The fortress
and small settlements within it were
defended only by a small, well armed
garrison of perhaps eighty men,
sparsely stationed along the length of
the wall. And so Baldor crossed the
final stretch of moonlit stone, the
day’s weight making him limp and
lean heavily on the spear he carried.
His shift of watch ended, Baldor
could finally return to the armory,
surrender his arms to the guard, and
report his observations of the
surrounding territory. He had seen
nothing, as expected, and looked
only to rid himself of his wet, sticky
armor. The night was peaceful, if
deadly cold, and Baldor was
gladdened to see the moon adrift
upon the dunes. Still, he sighed, long
and mournfully. He felt exposed and
unsafe atop the sandy walls, knowing
that their easy accessibility placed
him in great peril. For months he
had avoided the shady stairways
leading from town over the walls
Untitled
by Conrad Baker
and ran past them when his duties
required it. The lamps and torches
illuminating the walkway were
greatly spaced, giving too many
opportunities, he thought, for city
dwellers to approach him at night.
His insecurity kept him marching
along, studying stairways with care.
A shadow flitted at Baldor’s
back. He took quick note of it but
did not turn or slow in his hobbling
rhythm, the steady, painful plodding
that keeps an enemy confident. He
knew the shadow, and he knew who
it belonged to. Unfortunately, he did
not know her intentions. The nimble
figure, a grown child’s, perhaps,
wove itself into the fabrics of
twilight, making it ripple slightly
when approaching a lamp or torch.
For some time it followed Baldor,
keeping skillfully from lamplight
and making not a sound. Baldor
paused at last; he knew how to play
her games. The figure was trapped
beside a lamp post, locked in its halo
of light. Baldor
turned and faced
her, poised like a
serpent with his
long, steady spear.
“Show yourself to
me,” he whispered,
“or I shall stab you
like a rat.”
“Already you
have done that,” a
woman said,
“already you have
wounded my frail,
soft heart. I have
come to do you the
same.” The shadow
rose, Baldor’s past
wife, clutching a
dagger and hissing
at him. Baldor was
ready.
“Halt! Stay
back! I’ve never wounded you!” But
forward she lunged, and Baldor
struck. The figure wailed and twisted
free, then leapt back into the
darkness whence it came. Baldor
solemnly removed his helmet and
watched over the wall as it leaked
into the seams of stone blocks
below. He limped on again, this time
with reports from his wife and his
hardly untimely resignation. �
“I can’t rave enough
about this program. I
loved the people —
teachers and fellow
students alike. They were
knowledgeable, helpful,
friendly, and talented. My
writing was stimulated
more here than it has
been in months. I loved
every minute of it.”
— Sarah Karpovich
Young Writers | 3