Knights: Defenders of Ollanhar (Ollanhar Series Book 1) (19 page)

“Thank
you,” he said, truly grateful. “And your opinions are important as
well, Bekka. I’m glad you’re part of the Council.”

“As
long as I am on the Council,” said Bekka, “I will speak my mind and
fight for what I believe in. My father was a soldier and a guard at Gravendar,
and he taught me to stand up for myself and never back down.” For an
instant, her voice cracked and she seemed overcome with emotion. “Remember
yesterday when I mentioned that my brother had drowned? Well, my father shared his
fate while trying to save him. I just stood on the lakeshore and watched, too
shocked to do anything. The last thing I saw was fear in my father’s eyes
before he sank with my brother in his arms—not fear for his own life, but fear
for what would become of me. He knew he was leaving me alone to my fate, and it
tormented him in his final moments.”

“Your
father should be very proud of you,” said Lannon. “You’ve become a
great Knight and made the Council. I’m sure he is pleased.”

“How
can he be pleased,” said Bekka, “when he is dead?” She bowed her
head. “His last memory of me was consumed by fear and regret.”

“I
meant
his spirit
,” said Lannon.

Bekka
met his gaze, then looked away. “I don’t believe in a spirit, Lannon. I
believe the dead sleep forever. Death ends everything.”

Lannon
wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He didn’t want to arrogantly crush her
beliefs even though he strongly disagreed with her. He opted to remain silent
and let her decide things for herself.

“My
father is gone,” said Bekka. “Swallowed up by the earth. There is
nothing left of him except my memories.”

Lannon
continued to remain silent.

Suddenly,
Bekka gave him a piercing stare. “You disagree?”

“Yes,”
Lannon admitted. Now that she had asked, he felt justified in revealing his own
beliefs. “Actually, I can see the dead, Bekka. I can even speak to the
dead. There are spirits all over the place, including some that live right
under our tower of Ollanhar. Some of them are very powerful. The Dark Watchmen,
for example, remain restless and have never left our world.”

“But
they are not who they once were,” said Bekka. “They are just shades
of the living—leftover energy from life. Illusions without substance—no
different than dreams or memories. Even if you could speak to my father’s shade,
I wouldn’t want you to. It wouldn’t be him. The man who raised me is gone
forever, and no tricks of sorcery or the mind will change that. The world is
full of tricks, yet the dead never return. Look around you and tell me I’m
wrong.”

“You
are free to believe what you will,” said Lannon. He found her view to be
cynical at best, and he couldn’t understand what motivated her to feel that
way—but even a Divine Knight was given freedom of thought.

“Thank
you,” said Bekka. “I know you are a strict follower of the teachings
of the Divine Essence, so it must be difficult not to preach to me. It is a
reasonable and polite attitude like yours, Lannon, that I pay attention to.
Nevertheless, you are misguided. The dead are asleep and will not trouble
me.”

“Actually…”
Lannon mumbled. He found himself gazing at some kind of dark Ghoul that had
crept up behind Bekka. It was a man cloaked in black, with a pale face and
yellow eyes. His mouth hung open as if his jaw had come unhinged, to reveal
long, curved fangs.

***

The
Ghoul leaned close to Bekka, fangs moving toward her neck. A cold aura radiated
from the creature that spoke of ancient stone crypts and dreadful isolation, of
loss of hope and the doom of all living things. He had come to drain them of
life and energy and leave only empty flesh—a man cursed by the Deep Shadow
long ago and suspended in a state where he was neither alive nor dead but
somewhere in between, a stalker of the innocent who loved to destroy life. His
appearance was a mockery of who he had once been.

Lannon
drew his sword. “Behind you, Bekka!”

Bekka
drew her Flayer and whirled around. She took a step back in shock, as the
creature gazed at her, its jaws snapping shut. Not one to hesitate for long,
Bekka lashed out with her Flayer and cut a deep wound in the Ghoul’s chest—an
impressive strike driven by the power of Knightly sorcery.

The
Ghoul glanced down at the wound impassively, seemingly unaffected by it. Then
it seized Bekka’s Flayer and ripped it from her hand. It tossed the weapon
aside. It’s jaws opened wide again, and it lunged at her—again going for her
neck. The move was so swift that Bekka had no time to dodge, and the Ghoul’s
hands clamped onto her shoulders, pulling her toward the gleaming fangs.

Lannon
froze the Ghoul, and then yanked Bekka away from it. While the creature was
still suspended by the power of the Eye, Lannon sought to behead it. However,
his blade encountered fierce, invisible resistance—as if the neck were
shielded with dark sorcery. The wound was shallow, the blade glancing away.

Lannon
was disappointed in himself. His embarrassing strike wasn’t even as accurate
and forceful as Bekka’s.

Bekka
dove for her Flayer, as Lannon again struck at his foe—this time trying to
drive his blade through the Ghoul’s heart. It was a mighty thrust, and he got
deeper penetration this time—yet the Ghoul still seemed unfazed. It ripped
Lannon’s sword from his hand and tried in vain to snap it in two. When it
realized it couldn’t break the Dragon-bone blade, it hurled it away into the
fog.

Bekka
rose with her burning Flayer and struck the Ghoul from behind, inflicting
another deep wound. The Ghoul whirled around and seized her neck, pulling her
close and biting into her shoulder. She cried out in agony as the curved fangs
sank deep into her flesh. Bekka writhed about in sheer torment—a shocking
sight for Lannon to behold. He could sense her precious life force being
drained away, sending her into a panic as she fought to keep from being drained
until she was a lifeless shell. He could sense the horror of her experience.

Lannon
wrapped his arm around the Ghoul’s neck and squeezed until the fangs withdrew.
He yanked the creature away from Bekka, and kept on squeezing. Bekka fell to
the ground, apparently unconscious, as Lannon fought to maintain his hold. The
Ghoul weakened under the pressure, but it was not a living creature and could
not be strangled. At last, Lannon was forced to release his foe.

As
the Ghoul faced him, Lannon summoned his sword from the fog. He focused all of
his energy into the blade and waited for his foe to make a move. Yet the Ghoul
watched him with cunning eyes and kept its distance.

The
Ghoul whispered to Lannon in the tongue of the Deep Shadow that it was an
ancient king who resided in a castle in the peaks. Ever since being cursed, it
had killed many humans over the centuries—including Divine Knights. It came
from high up in the Soddurn Mountains, where others of its kind lurked in stone
crypts. It promised Lannon a quick death if he surrendered.

They
circled each other. Losing patience because of his desire to help Bekka, Lannon
leapt in for the kill, but the Ghoul seized his sword again. For an instant,
they fought for possession of the blade, and then Lannon’s fingers slipped and
again it was yanked from his clutches.

The
Ghoul tried to hurl the sword far away but Lannon was ready. He snagged the
weapon as it flew through the air and called it back instantly to his hand. The
Ghoul’s eyes widened in shock at this display of skill.

 
Once again Lannon focused the Eye into the
blade and waited, and this time his foe lost patience and leapt toward him.
Lannon struck a flawless blow to the Ghoul’s neck, breaking through the barrier
of dark magic and cutting deep into the tough flesh. The Ghoul staggered, black
blood pouring from the wound.

Lannon
struck again, and this time the head came free.

The
Ghoul was slain—the dark reign of the ancient king at last ended—but Bekka
had received a wound so terrible that the thought of it made Lannon shudder.
This was more wretched than Faindan’s curse—a wound that went to the very core
of Bekka’s being—and it was going to prove more difficult to overcome. He
wasn’t sure Dallsa could cure it.

With
a frustrated sigh, Lannon lifted Bekka and headed for camp.

Chapter 10:

The
Fiend in the Moat

Faindan
Stillsword survived the night.

He
awoke at dawn, terribly sore, the stench of the dead Wolf strong in his
nostrils. For a long time he lay there, dreading what he would find when he
looked upon his precious horse—dreading his own injuries that perhaps ran
deeper than he could yet know. The last thing he wanted was to see his horse
lying dead from its bloody wound—for not only would his best friend be gone,
but his chances of surviving the journey to Ollanhar would be greatly reduced.

But
avoiding the truth would not help him. Sooner or later he would have to face
his fears and learn just how dire his situation was. Eyes closed, he listened
for the sound of an animal breathing, but heard only birds chirping.

Groaning
in pain, he struggled up from the ground. He was delighted to see that his
horse was standing nearby. Its neck bore a grim wound, but it didn’t seem to
bother the Greywind too much. Faindan moved about, testing his strength. He
winced in pain with each step, but he sensed his injuries would heal in time,
and he was able to walk about in the meanwhile.

“And
so we live on,” he said to his horse, grinning. “The Deep Shadow
hasn’t finished us yet.” The horse bowed its head, inviting him to ride.
It scraped at the ground with its hoof, eager to move on.

Faindan
gazed at his dead foe—the huge, muscular beast sprawled out on the ground, its
tongue hanging from its muzzle. “I guess you thought I would be an easy
kill,” he said, “with only one hand for fighting.”

In
the light of dawn, the size and power of the Wolf was clearly revealed, and
Faindan was amazed that he was still alive. The beast could have easily torn
him to pieces, yet somehow he had overcome it. Faindan gagged, the evil stench
reminding him of stale crypts where only the dead could be found—yet there was
also an underlying smell of some odd spice like traces of incense, an unnatural
scent for an unnatural creature that was born of dark sorcery. Faindan was
gripped by both awe and disgust, chills creeping over him. Was there no limit
to how powerful and evil Goblins could become?

As
a young farmer boy living in a remote area, Faindan had been terrified of
Goblins. His mother used to tell him grim stories to frighten him into
behaving, and he had spent countless nights awake in his room and huddled
beneath his quilt, cringing at every noise. When he reached his teens, that
terror had turned to fascination with the creatures of Tharnin—a fascination
that had ultimately led him to Dremlock Kingdom and its libraries. After
earning Knighthood, Faindan’s love of Goblins had turned to disgust and a
desire to see them all killed.

“Good
riddance,” he whispered, as he gazed at the monster.

The
horse motioned with its head, doing everything it could to persuade Faindan to
ride on. Faindan too was anxious to get away from the stone ruins and the dead
Wolf, but he needed a moment to steady himself before attempting to climb into
the saddle. He glanced at the Wolf again, and a shock surged through him. Had
the beast moved slightly? The Wolf’s yellow eyes shone with malice and evil,
still very lifelike, the Deep Shadow’s presence still infesting the corpse.

Faindan
gazed at the Wolf for several moments, and when he detected no further
movement, he decided it must have been his imagination or simply the beast’s
fur rippling in the breeze—or both. Or maybe an insect or two had already
found the body and was seeking to feed. Faindan shuddered, his nerves raw.

Too
weak and sore to worry about his tent or other items, Faindan had all he could
do just to give his horse food and water and then climb into the saddle. Once
he managed that task, he found his horse able to bear his weight without
difficulty. He gazed back at the abandoned campsite, the tent door gaping open
like a shadowy mouth, and he shivered. Something about this whole area was
dreadfully wrong. The Deep Shadow had a strong presence here.

“Thank
you, my friend,” said Faindan, “for carrying me onward.” He
stroked the horse’s fur. “I’m sorry if I’m causing you any pain. We both
need rest and healing.” It was a tradition of the Knights of Dremlock to
not name their horses. It was considered rude to impose a name on a creature
that couldn’t speak for itself. However, each horse responded to the word
horse
as if a unique name had been called, even when there were several Greywinds
together. Each horse somehow always knew it was being summoned. These were the
blessed creatures bred by the Divine Essence and unique to Dremlock, and it was
common for a Knight to form a deep friendship with his steed to the point of
defending the animal to the death.

The
horse started off at a brisk pace, as Faindan ate some jerky and sipped at a
water flask. Then Faindan dozed in the saddle for periods of time, as the
Greywind followed the road back toward Ollanhar. Occasionally Faindan would
awaken to jolts of pain through his body. The Greywind’s strength and stamina
was far beyond that of his own, its wound healing swiftly as the hours passed
by. It was a hot day beneath a cloudy sky, and sweat dripped from Faindan’s
brow.

“Soon
we will be home,” Faindan said to his horse. “Your wound will be
tended to properly, and you will be given much rest…” He drifted away
again, his mind slipping into dreams where he still had two hands.

***

It
was late afternoon, when the clouds were reddened by the setting sun, when
Faindan came across a lone house on a hillside. It looked to have once been
part of a small castle, though only a single, crumbling stone tower that rose
up from a river and a section of a stone wall remained. The house itself was
old as well, made of colorful stones and bearing a round and pointed red roof
with a smoking stone chimney. The dwelling was surrounded by blue and yellow
flowers that extended down the hillside to the river. The river looked to have
once been a castle moat, with part of an ancient, mossy drawbridge sticking out
of the water near the slimy base of the tower. Nearby stood a small barn, a
white horse peeking out of it at Faindan.

Faindan
rode to the door, climbed off his horse, and knocked. Moments later he was
greeted by a lean, mostly bald man of about fifty who was dressed in a colorful
robe. His hands were wet with clay, and he held a rag which he had used to open
the door. As he beheld Faindan’s Knightly appearance—the fancy clothing and
leather armor of Dremlock—he bowed.

“Greetings,”
said Faindan. “I am injured and seeking a place to sleep for the night. My
horse also needs attention.”

The
man bowed again. “Of course, oh Divine Knight. My barn is small, but it
should be comfortable enough for your horse.” He raised his eyebrows.
“I can see that both you and your steed have endured many hardships.”

Faindan
nodded. “I can pay you for helping us.”

The
man’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Any Divine Knight is a good
friend of mine, as you will soon learn. Your presence here is a great honor to
me. Dinner is almost prepared. Go in and make yourself at home. I will tend to
your horse.”

“Thank
you,” said Faindan, as he stepped inside.

The
first thing Faindan noticed upon entering was a detailed wooden statue of a
hideous beast standing in a corner—a beast of six powerful tentacles and with
two round eyes the size of saucers. The beast held two large fish in its
tentacles, their flesh ripped open. It was a fantastic carving, and Faindan
realized he was in the house of an artist who seemed to have a love of very odd
decorations.

The
rooms were filled with carvings, sculptures, and paintings—some that depicted
scenes from Dremlock Kingdom’s past. Despite his pain, Faindan wandered around
a bit, taking in all the colorful sights. At last he slumped down in a chair,
overcome with agony and weariness. He needed meditation and healing, but he
just wanted to sleep and forget everything. He savored the smell of cooking
stew, his belly hungering for a hot meal, as he drifted into slumber.

Soon
the artist returned, his footsteps awakening Faindan.

“My
name is Gelarro,” he said, bowing again to the Knight.

Faindan
introduced himself, and they shook hands.

“Your
horse is doing well,” said Gelarro. “I fed and watered him, and
bandaged his wound. Our stew is almost done, and there is bread to go with
it.”

“Excellent,”
said Faindan. “I’m very hungry.”

Gelarro
gazed at him with a curious expression. “I’m the sort that always wants to
know everything, but of course a Knight’s business is his own.”

Faindan
laughed bitterly. “You want to know my exciting story? Very well. I was
cursed by the Deep Shadow and I cut off my own hand to stop the pain.” He
raised the stump to show Gelarro. “Cut it off and destroyed it. Then I was
attacked by a Goblin—a huge Wolf—and had my ribs broken.”

Gelarro’s
face paled a bit. “Yes, yes, I knew something terrible had happened to
you. To sever one’s own hand—it defies my understanding. And Goblins! Let me
tell you about Goblins, great Knight. I have one of my own, who prowls the
waters of the ancient moat, eating all of my fish.”

“I
saw the statue,” said Faindan.

Gelarro
frowned. “Well, the statues does not do the beast justice. It is a rather
poorly done imitation, actually. What I need is the real thing, so I can stuff
it and mount it. And so I can eat fish again.”

“I
would love to help,” said Faindan. “After all, killing Goblins is
what we Divine Knights do. But obviously, I’m not in any shape to be
fighting.”

“Of
course,” said Gelarro. “I wouldn’t ask it of you. If, after you rest
here a bit, you happen to feel up to the challenge…”

“I
only have one hand,” Faindan pointed out.

“Yet
you can still fight,” said Gelarro. “You slew a mighty Wolf. But,
again, I wouldn’t ask such a favor of you. I leave it totally in your
han…” He cleared his throat. “I leave it totally up to you.”

“The
stew smells delicious,” said Faindan. “A bit of ale would be
excellent too if you’ve got any. Enough ale to send me into a sleep my pain
cannot breach. All I want to do is forget this miserable world.”

“Consider
it done,” said Gelarro. “I shall fill your mug as many times as you
desire, oh warrior of the Sacred Kingdom—with my most expensive Dwarven ale.
You will sink into a slumber so deep you won’t feel a thing, and awaken
refreshed to a hot breakfast of bacon, eggs, and tea.”

“Such
royal treatment,” mused Faindan. “And how rude it would be if I
rested here, healed, and left you with your slimy, fish-eating Goblin.”

“Do
you speak for me, great Knight?” asked Gelarro. “Because those words
never crossed my lips. Your home is mine until you choose to leave, and I
require no payment of any kind. Why should I pay a defender of Silverland, who
made war on Bellis? I am not that greedy.”

“You’re
a good man, Gelarro,” said Faindan. “If I am strong enough to battle
your river beast, consider it done. Why don’t you see to that stew?”

Gelarro
bowed twice. “Of course. You may remain in your comfortable chair. I will
bring the bowl to you.”

Faindan
couldn’t help but grin broadly. “I feel like a king. This must be how that
tyrant Verlamer lives each and every day. It’s a wonder his belly isn’t fat and
his muscles weak from lack of use. Since you’re so inclined to treat me with
such hospitality, perhaps you can provide me with a pipe and some tobacco after
dinner. Preferably Birlote leaf.”

Gelarro
hesitated, then smiled. “I do indeed have Birlote leaf—from Borenthia
itself. It tastes like apples and will delight the soul. Do you like
apples?”

“Apples,
pears, plums—makes no difference to me,” said Faindan. “You bring
it, I’ll smoke it. Anything Birlote is good.”

“Except
the ale,” Gelarro pointed out. “Too weak.”

“Except
the ale,” Faindan echoed. “That’s right. Give me Olrog ale any day of
the week and especially today.”

Gelarro
headed off to get the food and drink.

Soon
Faindan was engaged in a delicious feast—beef stew in gravy and crusty,
buttered bread. He ate and drank until his belly hurt and he could hold no
more, then he leaned back in the padded chair, savoring a delicious smoke.

Gelarro
pulled a chair close to him, so the two were facing each other. Gelarro lit his
own pipe. “A Blue Knight of Dremlock,” he said, still bearing his
curious expression.

Faindan
nodded. “Yes, a spy and assassin. That’s me. But I don’t feel like
answering any questions right now. In fact, I’m soon to fall asleep. But before
I do, I would like to know a few things about you. Why no wife or children? As
a Divine Knight, I’m not allowed any, so I always feel surprised when I see
others who could marry and raise a family neglecting to do so.”

“Maybe
it was simply my choice,” said Gelarro. “Perhaps I find women and
children annoying. Perhaps I hate babies. Does that make me less of a man
somehow?”

“Your
way of life is your own business,” said Faindan. “But I sense that’s
not your situation. Why don’t you tell me what really happened?” The ale
was already getting to Faindan, causing him to slur his words a bit. His pain
was dulled along with his wits, and he spoke whatever came to mind.