Knights: Defenders of Ollanhar (Ollanhar Series Book 1) (10 page)

“The giant known as Winilwero the Proud stalked the
hills, valleys, and forests for more than one-hundred years, slaying Divine
Knights and bringing chaos to the land. He boasted of his immortality, and time
and again some of the greatest Knights were slain by his mighty hammer or
crushed in his arms.

“Winilwero brought the storms with him wherever he
roamed—the fog and the rain, the wind and the lightning. The storm itself was
a great beast of Tharnin, always hovering above him and darkening the land with
shadow. The giant won many great victories, and at last in his arrogance he
sought to topple Dremlock Kingdom.

“Raising an army of Blood Legion warriors and
Goblins, Winilwero the Proud lay siege to the mountain with the intent to rip
down our gates by brute force. Yet there he was met by Quintalus Redlance, the
legendary Lord Knight of Dremlock, and the two fought a duel for the fate of
our kingdom.

“Blow after blow was struck, but the divine armor
of our Lord Knight did not give way, and at last his burning sword pierced the
giant’s heart. Winilwero was found to not be immortal after all, as he could
not stop the bleeding and bled his life away for hours until death finally
claimed him.

“The giant’s body was burned to ash—a process that
took days—and his huge hammer and armor are still displayed in the Hall of
Battles, which is only opened once every seven years…”

Lannon yawned, grateful there were no giants as powerful as
Winilwero the Proud in his day and age (at least none he had encountered yet).
He forced some more food down, striving to free his mind of the milk-induced
fog. He didn’t like the feeling of being enslaved by his choice of drink and
was concerned he might say or do something that would damage his reputation.
However, no one was paying much attention to him with all the merrymaking going
on.

The Festival of Souls continued into the night, as a few
more warriors took to snoring for the evening—victims of too much wine and
ale. Furlus Goblincrusher ordered a new weapon rolled forth—a mighty crossbow
that fired ten spear-length arrows at once and could be rapidly reloaded. It
was a fantastic Dwarven invention that gleamed menacingly in the light of the
bonfire, the huge arrows ready to launch with the pull of a lever.

“I call this the Dragon Claw,” said Furlus,
standing before the weapon. “It is made almost entirely of steel and yet,
in spite of that, is amazingly light thanks to its slender design.” He
traced his fingers over the narrow beams. “It cannot be easily burned or
broken. The arrows can pierce multiple foes at once, doing tremendous damage.
Let Bellis fear this weapon!”

The crowd roared in approval. They wanted a demonstration,
but with no suitable target on hand, Furlus declined.

“I challenge it,” said Daledus, leaping up and
knocking over his chair in the process. The Dwarf waved his ale mug toward the
siege engine. “If this weapon is so mighty, why does it fire the arrows in
such a tight bunch? Enemies could easily evade the volley. It lacks accuracy
and is therefore unworthy of battle—unless the foe is a single large target.
Perhaps it would work against a troll.”

Furlus’ eyes blazed. “The arrows can be adjusted so
they spread out.” He demonstrated by turning a crank, and the ten arrows
separated a bit. “And furthermore,” he roared, “they can be made
to fire all at once or one at a time. And this crossbow is incredibly accurate.
Many tests on oak barrels have proven that. So is your challenge
answered?”

Daledus bowed and said: “Indeed. The Olrogs once again
triumph by inventing something even Bellis will envy. We make the greatest
weapons and armor, and we are the strongest!”

Galvia raised her war hammer. “We always win the test
of strength at the Festival of Souls!”

Aldreya looked amused. “Of course you do, with Furlus
competing.”

“Yet I will not compete this time,” said Furlus.
The crowd booed. “I leave it to you younger warriors to prove
yourselves.”

Daledus flexed his arms. “Then I have already
won.”

Jerret rose and strode over to the stocky Dwarf, gazing
down at him. “Is that so? He flexed his own muscle-laden arms. “I
think not.”

Daledus laughed. “No Norack can beat a Dwarf in a test
of strength. It has never been done. You’ve got some meat on your arms—I’ll
give you that. But with that weak Norack blood in your veins, surely you will
falter.”

Some of the other Knights who felt they had a chance rose
and made their boasts. But Aldreya waved at them dismissively.

“Can any of you defeat Lannon?” she asked,
smiling. “Our High Watchman may wish to show his strength.”

Lannon shook his head, wanting no part of it. Such
competitions did not appeal to him. He had no interest in proving himself.

Daledus frowned. “We all know Lannon cannot be easily
defeated in a test of sorcery. But his strength is granted by the Divine
Essence. This is a test of raw muscle—no sorcery allowed.”

“Just pure strength,” said Jerret, nodding.
“Perfect.”

“Daledus is correct,” said Furlus. “Any use
of sorcery is cheating. This must be done by pure mental focus and physical
might.”

“Then bring forth the weights,” said Daledus.

A number of heavy, rectangular iron blocks with rings
welded to them were laid in the clearing, ranging widely in weight. The Knights
gathered around—some of whom had come from Dremlock specifically for this
competition—and they started with the lightest weights. With each attempt, a
pair of rings was seized and a block lifted overhead. If a Knight failed to
make the lift and allowed the block to touch the ground, that Knight was
disqualified. Faces were crimson with strain as the warriors fought to push the
weights overhead. Some of the Knights faltered, their arms shaking as weights
dropped to the earth. Some fought valiantly to keep the weights above ground,
bending and twisting their bodies beneath, but they were unable to make the
lift and inevitably had to surrender.

Two of the women—Bekka and Galvia—outlasted some of the
men to enormous cheers from the crowd, until they too were at last eliminated.
Soon only a handful of the strongest Knights remained, including Jerret and
Daledus. Vorden—who possessed unnatural strength and who was possibly still
afflicted with a serious injury—was forced to stay out of the competition.

As the weights grew heavier, more Knights faltered—until
at last only Jerret and Daledus remained. The two made absurd boasts and stared
each other down, as the crowd laughed and cheered.

“Not bad for a beardless weakling,” said Daledus.
“But surely you cannot go on. Perhaps you should quit before you injure
yourself. I don’t want you crying on me because you strained your back.”
He held his lower back and paced about like he was in agony, as the Knights
roared laughter.

Jerret grinned and stroked the stubble on his chin to show
that he did indeed possess a beard. “Getting longer by the day.”

Daledus waved him away. “The face of a baby.”

“Keep talking,” said Jerret, shaking his head in
amusement. “If the rest of your body is as tireless as your jaws, perhaps
I will indeed be defeated.”

The Knights again roared laughter.

With a grunt, Daledus lifted a weight that could have
equaled four large Knights. His teeth clenched in strain, he heaved the huge
piece of iron overhead—using his short body as an advantage. He paused, eyes
on Aldreya. She signaled that it was a good lift, and he dropped the weight and
stepped back, staggering.

“Alas,” he panted, “you are finished! And
I’m not even sober!”

“I’ve had my share of ale,” said Jerret, as he
seized the weight. With a ferocious effort, he managed to heave it overhead.

Only one weight remained—the heaviest of all that only a
few elite Knights had ever lifted. As Daledus made the attempt, his body nearly
buckled from the strain, but somehow he put forth a superhuman effort and made
the lift. As the weight thudded to the ground, Daledus fell silent, his chest
heaving. There was no need for boasting now. He had proven himself.

Jerret studied the weight, his eyes fierce with focus. If
he could lift it and earn a tie, the winner would be decided in a wrestling
match—and Jerret was extremely skilled at wrestling.

He seized the weight and put forth a colossal effort, and
for a moment it looked as if he could not fail. But then unexpectedly his
shaking body sagged beneath the massive strain. He held on valiantly for a
moment, refusing to surrender—his face crimson and his neck muscles bulging.
But he had nothing left. He let the weight drop in disgust.

Daledus watched him somberly, holding off on celebrating as
he waited to see how Jerret would react.

Jerret’s face darkened and his hands knotted into fists. He
wasn’t used to defeat. No one spoke, and tension filled the air. Then his
expression softened into a grin. “I guess I do need a longer beard after
all!” He grabbed Daledus’ arm and raised it. “The strongest Knight of
all, Daledus Oakfist!”

The crowd roared in approval.

But Daledus shook his head. “I reject that title—as
long as I have yet to test myself against Furlus Goblincrusher.”

Furlus waved him away. “Nonsense. You have proven
yourself, and should enjoy your evening. Have some more ale.”

Daledus’ face was grim. “Knowing I haven’t defeated
you, I cannot celebrate. There will be no joy for me.”

Furlus sneered and leaned forward, his massive arms bulging
beneath his green tunic. “You should have that ale, before things turn
sour for you. You did well with the weights. You’ve earned the right
to…talk.”

“Yet it is just
talk
, as you say,” said
Daledus. “What value is there in talk? I want to defeat Furlus
Goblincrusher in a test of strength.”

The crowd agreed with Daledus.

Furlus pushed aside his ale mug and rose, smoothing out his
huge beard. “So, I must play the role of the spoiler this night—and a put
a champion in his place. If that’s how it must be. Who am I to refuse a good
challenge?”

“I will squeeze you like a bear!” growled
Daledus. “No one has ever broken my grasp! It cannot be done!”

Furlus strode over to Daledus and turned his back on him.
“Then squeeze, young bear. Show Furlus Goblincrusher that he is an old
fool who has grown weak. Shame me in front of my Knights!”

“I will shame you!” Daledus bellowed, seizing him
from behind.

They roared and grunted, twisting about, and for a moment
it looked as if Daledus might claim victory. But Furlus at last broke free and,
in a swift spin move, turned the tables on Daledus, snaring him in a hold of
his own from behind. Now it was Daledus who sought to break free.

“I warned you!” Furlus growled, his arms locked
in place.

As they staggered from strain (and the effects of hours of
ale drinking), Daledus got too close to the bonfire. The Knights yelled a
warning but it was too late. Daledus’ beard caught fire.

Furlus yanked him away from the flames and released him.
The Knights quickly doused his beard with water, but the damage had been done.

Half of Daledus’ beard was burned off.

Daledus clutched what remained of his beard in horror.
Then, his face reddened with humiliation, he fled into the shadows.

Furlus smiled. “A lesson learned the hard way.”

Next, the crowd wanted a display of power from Lannon that
would truly mark the beginning of the Festival of Souls—as the High Watchman
had done at the celebration in ancient times. Lannon was still trying to clear
his mind from the Greeule Milk, but the crowd was so insistent that at last he
rose and bowed.

“I’ll do my best,” he promised them.

Lannon considered his options, then approached the bonfire.
Shielding his body with the Eye of Divinity, he reached into the flames and
pulled out a piece of smoldering wood. He held forth the mass of crimson coals,
focusing his power into his hand to keep his flesh from burning.

The crowd cheered.

“Behold!” said Furlus. “Only a Knight truly
blessed by the Divine Essence can touch the fire and not be burned. We will
hold a moment of silence in honor of our god, and then Aldreya will begin the
honoring of the dead.”

Everyone sat with heads bowed for a time, and then Aldreya
rose and threw something into the fire. The flames turned green and white, and
small glowing orbs like ghostly lights emerged to float about the clearing.

***

The Festival of Souls went on past midnight.

At some point, Aldreya roused Lannon from a light slumber
by squeezing his shoulder. He gazed at her questioningly.

“What’s going on?” he asked. The serious
expression on Aldreya’s face startled him. The Knights who remained were asleep
at the tables, and the bonfire had returned to its natural color and had died
down some. A warm breeze blew through the clearing beneath the stars.

“It is time to leave,” she whispered.
“Furlus and I had planned it so we would depart in the dead of night. Our
goal is keep Bellis from knowing that the White Flamestone is leaving
Silverland.”

“But Bellis will eventually learn the truth,”
Lannon pointed out. “King Verlamer has spies everywhere—even inside
Dremlock.”

“Yes,” she said. “But hopefully we will be
deep into our journey by then. Our supplies have already been gathered at the
stable.”

Lannon yawned, feeling a bit weary for travel. He was
annoyed that he had been kept in the dark. Didn’t the High Watchman deserve
better? “I would have preferred to know. I didn’t have time to
prepare.”

“I apologize,” said Aldreya. “It was my
decision, and Furlus did not agree with it. I wanted absolute secrecy and was
afraid you might accidentally reveal our plans. The truth is, Lannon, sometimes
you are not as careful about guarding secrets as you should be.”