Knights: Defenders of Ollanhar (Ollanhar Series Book 1) (13 page)

Lannon didn’t care for either of those options. Instead, he
reached forth with the Eye and drew the lance into his hand. He doubted the
move was allowed, and he waited for the Lawkeeper’s response. But the Lawkeeper
immediately began studying one of his books, his face red with anger.

Lannon took that as a sign to continue, and the two
warriors charged each other again. This time Lannon shielded his mind against
the Guardian’s sorcery and was able to stay focused. The Eye of Divinity
gripped his body, willing his muscles to thrust out with the lance at the
proper moment, and the weapon slammed against the Guardian’s shoulder.
 
The blow was driven by a mighty surge of
energy, and the Golden Knight was lifted up and flung from the saddle.

The Divine Knights cheered.

It was a humiliating defeat for the Golden Knights, who
bowed their heads in shame. Their flawless reputation was now tarnished.

“Well done, Lannon!” Jerret called out.

But the Lawkeeper refused to give up. He waved his hand
about as Lannon approached. “Hold on a moment.” He continued studying
his books, and then at last his eyes lit up with glee. He read the passage he
was looking for:
“Neither lance nor feet shall touch the ground for
even an instant, or the contest is finished.”
He held it up for the
others to view.

“Why should we trust the writings in your book?”
said Prince Vannas. “I demand more proof than that.”

“This is an official rule book,” said the
Lawkeeper, looking appalled, “for all manner of contests. It is recognized
by most kingdoms throughout Gallamerth, including Dremlock. I assure you it is
factual.”

“So you claim,” said Vannas.

“I must admit,” said Aldreya, “that my knowledge
in this area is somewhat lacking.” She turned to Jace. “Any
thoughts?”

“Are you interested in hearing the truth?” asked
Jace.

“Of course,” said Aldreya, though she looked a
bit reluctant.

“Very well,” said Jace. “Lannon lost the
duel when his lance touched the ground. The Lawkeeper is correct. And his rule
book—
The Official Kingdom Rules of Gamesmanship
, written by Thayvad
Redshield—is indeed widely recognized. Every kingdom has one.”

“You’re an honest man, Jace,” said the Lawkeeper.
“Now hand over the treasure, including that lovely war hammer.” His
eyes smoldered with greed as he gazed at the magnificent hammer. “A
Blessed Hammer of Dremlock—one of only eight ever created. What a wondrous
find for King Verlamer.”

“A weapon of Dremlock!” Daledus growled.

The Lawkeeper smiled. “Not anymore, Dwarf.”

The Lawkeeper and his warriors took the treasure and rode
off, while the Divine Knights were left with somber expressions.

“I’m sorry I lost the joust,” said Lannon.

“No need to apologize,” said Daledus, who was
fired up and pacing about in the trail, his hands knotted into fists. “You
knocked that Guardian right out of the saddle—a blow that hit him like a
battering ram—and if not for some ancient and silly rule, you’d be the
winner.”

“As far as I’m concerned,” said Jerret, “you
are
the winner, Lannon.”

The other Knights voiced their agreement.

But Aldreya was having none of it. “We lost, and we
must accept defeat with honor. Yet we accomplished something important
nonetheless—we avoided a war with the Lawkeeper over treasure that would
surely have cost lives. Avoiding bloodshed is a victory that we can be proud
of.”

“I would have preferred bloodshed,” Jerret
muttered.

“But this isn’t over,” said Jace, with a grim
expression. “We will deal with this Lawkeeper again, for I believe his
goal is indeed bloodshed. I believe he has come to claim the Flamestone for
Bellis—after letting us do all the work to obtain it. My guess is that he
would not have fought us for this treasure—not with Lannon and Prince Vannas
present. Instead, his plan is to ambush us.”

“But that’s only a guess,” said Aldreya. “I
cannot rely on that, for too much is at stake. The Flamestone is all the
matters.”

Chapter 9:

The
Ancient Horrors of the Soddurn Mountains

Evening
was settling over the land as Faindan Stillsword guided his horse through the
hills, and a few stars were already visible in the crimson sky. He had been
riding all day and was hungry and weary—as if trying to leave his shame as far
behind as possible. He cursed himself repeatedly for being a weak-willed fool,
and his despair was so deep he almost wished he was dead.

“A
Blue Knight without two hands,” he muttered to himself. “Can’t climb
walls or ropes, can’t shoot a bow. Finished!”

But
was he? He could possibly change color class and become a Brown or Red Knight,
but only with the approval of the High Council—and such approval was unlikely.
Color classes were chosen carefully after trials were conducted and were only
altered if there was a great need. For all his talent, Faindan was just another
Knight and could be replaced. It was unlikely the Red or Brown Knights would
take a chance on him, as he couldn’t wield both shield and sword like a Brown
or any of the heavy two-handed weapons the Red Knights favored.

“I’ll
be retired to Orange,” he groaned, feeling sick. He couldn’t accept life
as an Orange Squire, regardless of the pay or ease of living. How could he
serve food and drink to Knights he had once ridden with into battle? After
having tasted Knighthood, the shame would be too great. He imagined himself
cooking meals, mopping floors, or tending horses and he cringed. He vowed that
if it came to that, he would simply walk away from Dremlock and never return.

Wolf
howls interrupted his thoughts—evil sounds that undoubtedly came from the
throats of Goblins. But Faindan wasn’t concerned, his mind too heavily burdened
with thoughts of his situation. His frustration compelled him onward without
rest, and his mighty Greywind horse was up to the task. Seldom did these war horses
of Dremlock tire before their riders did.

“You’re
my best friend,” Faindan whispered to his horse. “Though I have been
a fool, you haven’t given up on me. To you, it makes no difference that I have
lost my hand. You still bear me along like a worthy Knight.”

At
last, too weary to go on, Faindan slid down from his horse and made camp for
the evening. Setting up his tent was difficult, but he soon learned to work
around his limitations. After the tent was pitched and he had tended to his
horse, he built a fire and sat before it eating jerky, cheese, and bread.

He
gazed up at the stars, marveling at how many there were in the black sky. In
the ancient writings of Dremlock, the Divine Essence said that the stars were
blazing lamps that warmed the garden of the universe—a garden designed to grow
life so that intelligent beings could emerge and eventually tend that garden.
The writings said that all creatures were the children of the god that ruled
over the heavens—that god being the mysterious father of the Divine Essence
known only as the Great Light—and that humans were the result of careful
planning. Faindan gazed at the stump of his wrist, wondering why such careful
planning had led him to this fate. Didn’t his god care about him? The Divine
Essence itself was troubled—deeply concerned with its future and apparently
receiving no help from the mighty god that had spawned it. So why should a
lowly Knight like Faindan be of any concern?

Then
he remembered other writings which stated that all Knights of Dremlock were
prized by the Divine Essence—that they were its loyal servants and it would
always watch over them. But that seemed silly. Clearly his god hadn’t been
watching over him when the Deep Shadow infected his hand and drove him to
commit his insane act. The truth was that Faindan was serving a god that was a
shattered creature which had once roamed the world—a creature that was in a
struggle to keep itself alive and make itself whole again. It had neither the
time nor the resources to help Faindan, and even if it was willing to bless him
and restore his hand (it was said to have administered such blessings to the
worthy at times), he would never be allowed to stand before it. That honor was
reserved for the Lord Knight of Dremlock, the unfathomable Birlote wizard known
as Taris Warhawk.

Faindan’s
hand simply would not grow back, no matter how many times he begged his god to
restore it. He just wasn’t worthy to receive such a magnificent blessing. Maybe
Lannon or Aldreya were worthy, but Faindan had barely accomplished anything in
his brief career. As much as it pained his soul, he was forced to admit that he
was left on his own to struggle along with his missing hand. Nevertheless, he
vowed to continue serving his god and living as a Divine Knight—even if he was
forced to leave Dremlock.

As
Faindan made that vow, he suddenly felt stronger. He realized he was not going
to Dremlock to face Taris and the High Council. Instead, he would ride to
Ollanhar and place himself at the mercy of Furlus Goblincrusher. It was as if a
voice was speaking to him and guiding him, but he dismissed it as nonsense
created by his own mind. The voice was still trying to speak to him, but he
forced it out of his thoughts, reminding himself that he was alone in his
decisions.

Some
of Faindan’s confidence had returned, and he felt restless. He rose and paced
about by the fire, pleased with his own wisdom. Surely Furlus would know if
Faindan retained any value as a Knight, and Furlus would never shame him by
demoting him to Orange. Most likely, the Tower Master would simply order
Faindan to retire from Dremlock, which was something Faindan could live with.
He would never have to walk through the gates of Dremlock and then be forced to
leave his beloved kingdom. He could simply ride away from Ollanhar Tower and
make a new life for himself—perhaps as a Temple Master, which was a common
role for retired Knights. He could spend his time teaching wisdom.

But
then the emptiness gripped Faindan again. Was this really the end of his precious
Knighthood—taken from him before he ever had a chance to do great deeds and
make a name for himself? He couldn’t imagine not living as a Knight. That
seemed like a fate worse than death. He groaned, hating the way his thoughts
kept twisting about. Until the matter was settled, he would find no peace.

Again,
evil wolf howls interrupted his thoughts—this time coming from nearby amongst
the hills. His horse grew agitated. His hand dropped to his sword hilt and he
glanced about, trying to peer into the darkness. When he failed to see or hear
anything, he lit a lantern and waved it around as he walked, hoping to scare
the wolves away. He noticed some stone ruins on the side of the hill where he
was camped—what looked like a small, sunken keep of some sort.

Faindan
had failed to notice these ruins earlier. In spite of what had happened the
last time he had investigated such ruins, they grabbed his interest. He had a
love of ancient places. But as he approached the heap of mossy stone blocks,
his curiosity gave way to anger. He gazed down at the ruins with contempt,
thinking of the agony he had suffered, and hatred filled his heart.

Faindan
sat the lantern down and drew his sword, sending fire into the blade. He shoved
it against the stone blocks. “By the Divine Essence, I will burn you
out!” he vowed, hoping some foul thing of the Deep Shadow would taste his
flames and wither into oblivion. In the back of his mind, he knew he was
wasting his time and behaving foolishly, but his emotions were raging.

His
lack of focus almost cost him everything, as a huge Goblin Wolf leapt through
the air from behind—intent on slamming into Faindan like a battering ram with
its heavy body and breaking his bones. But Faindan’s Blue Knight training
caused him to duck at the sound of the beast’s leap, and the Wolf flew over him
and crashed into the mossy rocks, tumbling over.

The
Wolf scrambled up and wheeled about, drooling with hunger, its yellow eyes
smoldering with evil. It rose up atop the rock pile, mighty muscles rippling over
a body that was like a mix of wolf and man and covered in long, shaggy fur. Its
physical stench—and the stench of the Deep Shadow—was smothering. It threw
back its head and howled.

Faindan
raised his burning blade, even as he struggled to calm himself in preparation
for battle. With only one hand, he couldn’t draw his Flayer. He was used to
fighting with two blades, and he felt exposed and defenseless with only one
against this mighty foe. He was facing a Wolf that had grown huge and powerful
from plentiful feeding, its thick hide able to deflect all but the most
accurate attacks. The muscles that bulged out from the beast’s thick neck and
chest were very intimidating, leaving Faindan doubtful he would prevail. The
sight of the huge monster rising up from the rocks filled him with dread.

And
then the beast leapt, claws and fangs seeking to shred his flesh. Faindan
twisted to one side and tore into the beast with his burning sword, cutting a
deep wound in its side. The Wolf landed and turned with shocking speed, its
claws swiping back in retaliation and catching Faindan’s shoulder—ripping
through his leather armor and tearing deep into the flesh beneath.

With
a cry of agony, Faindan backed away—an instant before the beast charged him
again with another leap. A stroke of good luck saved him, as he tripped over a
stone and fell onto his back. Once again the Wolf continued on through the air
over him, its claws missing him by inches.

Faindan
rose, blood soaking his tunic, as the Wolf faced him again. The Wolf was aware
of Faindan’s missing hand, its cunning eyes searching out every weakness. The
beast whispered to Faindan in the language of the Deep Shadow, seeking to
reinforce his doubts and persuade him to fail. But Faindan’s Knightly training
allowed him to resist the Wolf’s sorcery and remain focused.

And
then Faindan’s war horse reached the scene and tried to stomp the Wolf with its
hooves. The two beasts fought for a moment and then the Greywind was yanked
down, its legs buckling—bleeding from a deep wound in its neck.

Faindan
groaned in frustration, wishing the horse had simply kept its distance. He
distracted the Wolf by waving his arms and lured it away from the injured
horse. The Wolf glanced hungrily at the meaty horse, then back at Faindan. At
last it took the bait and followed the Blue Knight.

When
the Wolf charged again, Faindan was ready. He sidestepped the beast and plunged
his burning sword into its neck. The Wolf’s momentum ripped the sword from
Faindan’s grasp, and he drew his Flayer.

Howling
in pain and rage, the Wolf turned and bounded toward the young Knight, the
sword still protruding from its neck. Faindan drove the burning Flayer into the
beast’s skull—a killing blow, but one that cost Faindan as he failed to leap
aside. The Wolf smashed into him with crushing force and sent him tumbling head
over heels.

The
Wolf lay dead, but Faindan was badly wounded—bleeding from the vicious tear in
his shoulder and having suffered broken ribs from that final impact. He lay on
his back, gazing up at the stars and wondering if this was the end for him. If
other Wolves were lurking about, they would surely smell his blood—and that of
his horse— and come for an easy kill. He could smell the moss of the nearby
rocks, and he thought it was odd that he should notice such a thing. He found
he was more worried about his horse than himself.

The
pain drove him to begin his Knightly meditation that would fuse together flesh
and bone. He visualized tissue knitting together rapidly, and he called upon
his body to heal his wounds by repeating commands in his mind. If he could
survive the night, perhaps he would be able to ride on for Ollanhar during
daylight—if his horse was able to carry him. For now, he could do nothing but
heal and hope that the Wolves didn’t find him.

***

After
two weeks of travel, the Divine Knights reached the end of the hill country and
the land flattened out, showing signs of civilization. They rode past sprawling
farms and found small towns with stores where they stocked up on provisions. They
were able to sleep in a comfortable inn for a change.

Yet
as they drew closer to the Soddurn Mountains, the weather took a turn for the
worse—the sky clouding over and a wretched fog rolling in. Foggy, rainy
weather was a sign of the Deep Shadow’s influence on the land—emanating from
the cursed mountains that blocked their path somewhere ahead beyond forest and
farmland. They knew the bad weather would become a constant companion until
they crossed through the ancient peaks and escaped the reach of Tharnin.

Soon
it began to rain, a steady drizzle that came down for hours. The road grew
muddy, and moods grew sullen. At last the rain ceased, but the mud continued to
splash about as the horses made their way through the slop, and the dense fog
continued to hover around them, potentially concealing enemies.

At
one point they met a hefty, bearded man on horseback and his twelve-year-old
son. The man was distraught, waving his arms at the Knights and begging them to
stop. Aldreya and Lannon rode forth to meet him.

“My
name is Blix Scrogglin,” said the man. “I’m a farmer who lives
nearby. I have a favor to ask of you. My boy here is named Taith…” He
cleared his throat. “Um, Taith Fang…blade. Yes, Fangblade. A Knightly
last name. Would you be willing to take him with you and train him as a
Squire?”