Karnov: Phantom-Clad Rider of the Cosmic Ice
By
Matthew Knight, Howie K. Bentley and Byron A. Roberts
Foreword by Jon Zaremba
Cover art by Bebeto DarOZ
Karnov: Phantom-Clad Rider of the Cosmic Ice copyright © Matthew Knight, Howie K. Bentley, and Byron A. Roberts 2019. Published with permission of the authors.
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Michael Greylord.
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Foreword
By Jon Zaremba
I’ve been looking at a blank page for many hours now, trying to find the right words to introduce the wonderful book that you hold in your hands. A book which I was proud to read while it was being developed and a foreword which I am honored to have been recruited to write.
I do my best to approach all significant endeavors with a relentless commitment to honesty. For better or worse, everything from the music I’ve recorded to the stories I’ve penned to the photos I’ve taken and to the comments I’ve posted… all of it has been built on a foundation of intellectual honesty that has often times hindered my potential exposure as a creator. It is with that spirit of introspective truth-telling that firstly, I am aware that you may not know who I am… and secondly I admit to not being worthy of introducing these tales of Karnov.
However, I am here. Although apprehensive, I will introduce this book to you, and do so solemnly. Perhaps in the process you will get to know me better and my inclusion here will be justified.
Being an outsider to both sword and sorcery as well as heavy metal has not detracted from my unabashed love of both. In fact, absorbing these art forms from an objective perspective has actually further fostered my adoration. I have written some blog posts for DMR, a few reviews, and done some interviews over the years too. By approaching the subject objectively, I can get deep into the philosophy behind the art that I love. I enjoy this approach because it helps me understand why a story, album, or painting has a particular effect on me.
While heavy metal was not the first, second, or even third musical love of my life, it is the type of music I hold most dearly, and that when produced correctly, is the type of music that I most identify with… because of the philosophy that is woven (sometimes subconsciously) into its fabric. I am not a metalhead. I’ve never been part of any sort of scene or culture. In fact, I didn’t come to metal until the 1990s, much later than others my age. I grew up in a small Pennsylvania town only knowing of heavy metal peripherally. It wasn’t until the dawn of the internet that I became aware of how this form of music had evolved to supremacy.
I didn’t get into metal via bands like Maiden, Metallica, or Priest. I skipped the whole hair band phenomena of the 1980s. In fact, one of my first metal CDs, as gifted to me by my old friend Dale Vied, was Byron A. Roberts’ BAL SAGOTH album Starfire Burning Upon the Ice-Veiled Throne of Ultima Thule, followed shortly thereafter by Battle Magic. This was my first impression of heavy metal, and ultimately sword and sorcery, for I got into that type of literature through the music. I loved both of those earlier BAL SAGOTH albums, but it was Atlantis Ascendant that completely blew me away. I remember the exact moment I saw it on the shelf of an independent record store in Riverside, CA. I had never seen this sort of thing for sale in person before. The inclusion of epic underground metal among the popular dreck of the early 2000s lit a fire within me that greatly influenced my creative efforts.
A few years later while living in Utah, I learned about Howie K. Bentley’s CAULDRON BORN through Denis Gulbey of Sentinel Steel. Born of the Cauldron was my introduction to his universe, an album that not only led me to his other musical projects and literary works, but also established a friendship between us. Over the years, Howie has become one of my most trusted friends and mentors, providing guidance and advice that has helped to improve my own writing. Like most other artists who are beautifully prolific in their depiction of true darkness and carnage, Howie is a genuinely polite and thoughtful fellow.
It was through Howie that I came to know Matthew Knight. I was in need of a guest narrator for my final album Promontory. I was disheartened by the lackluster responses I was receiving from the ads I had circulated. I explained to Howie that I wanted someone who would appreciate my short story around which the album was composed, someone who would perform the lines theatrically with passion and conviction. Matthew was the first person that Howie recommended. To this day, there is nobody I would have rather included in the punctuation of my era as a musician than Matthew Knight. He played the role of Mark Oberheim on the album, providing a heartfelt performance. I quickly fell in love with his band ETERNAL WINTER and we also sparked a great friendship that led to other collaborations including our sound-novel project HAUNTED ABBEY MYTHOS.
Traditionally, a foreword is included as a means to validate the work of the author. The three monoliths who have joined forces to bring you Karnov do not need any validation, let alone mine. I view Matthew, Howie, and Byron as friends, mentors, and heroes. At best, and even this is a stretch… I’m a Wrathmane to their Karnov. “Who is Wrathmane?” you ask… you’re soon to find out.
For what you are about to read is a thrilling story that spans multiple worlds and includes several intriguing heroes and villains. These two stories of Karnov are full of supernatural horror, intense gore, and epic battles… tales that are born from the true fundamentals of heavy metal as expressed by three authors who have lived and breathed heavy metal during the decade of cultural betrayal. In addition to their metal esthetics, these two books of Karnov also contain a few moments of well-placed humor, sometimes less obviously than others, but always making these stories legitimately fun to read.
Part of what makes this book fun is that each author takes turn telling a chapter of the story, a technique that I didn’t think would work until I actually read it. Each of their individual voices is clearly represented by their writing style, but not at expense of the narrative itself. This adds another level to the journey that you’ll take with Karnov, traversing not only the parallel worlds of his universe, but also the parallel minds of Knight, Bentley, and Roberts.
So, albeit with some trepidation as an outsider, but with the self-righteous impudence as an artist, I am honored to present to you KARNOV: PHANTOM-CLAD RIDER OF THE COSMIC ICE!
Episode I: The Eye of Orlock
Book I By Matthew Knight
Chapter I: A Grim Homecoming (Black is the Blood of the Night)
The sky was grayer than axe-beaten steel as I rode through the grim countryside of Duros Zuil. The dusty road I had been following for days now lead me into a familiar farmland, wreathed in fog and shadow. Surrounded by neighboring villages, it was set between brooding woods and a mass of towering black crags. A chill wind gusted through the brown, grassy hills that overtook the land, howling between skeletal branches of dead oak trees in its wake. Shady, poverty-stricken villagers tended wheat and barley fields, many of whom looked away in fear or gave unwelcoming glances when I rode past. As gloomy as the sight of this place was, for me it was a joy to behold, as it meant my journey was coming to an end. My home was in a village just beyond this land.
The battle at Orobos Sandus had left me weary. I fought hard and took many lives for the Dark Queen, Leandra, whose army clashed with that of Suntha Guull only weeks ago. The old sorcerer offended the Queen by sending numerous ineffable supernatural horrors into her territory, slaying many of her most valuable officers, while kidnapping several of the kingdom’s royal maidens. These women were held captive and used in
rituals within Guull’s walls. At length, after fighting our way through his ranks of otherworldly creatures, we stormed the citadel, took the wizard by force, then had his head spitted on an iron stake before Leandra’s throne. Now, after all the madness of battle, I was anxious to return to my wife’s loving embraces and the sound of my son’s joyful laughter.
Light chain mail jingled beneath my torn traveler’s cloak, and my dark mane blew wildly in the sweeping gales. As I rode, I looked up to behold a baleful sight in the distance which was another symbol of home to my eyes; atop the jagged crags, brooding over this land, stood Castle Thornhaven. A sinister spectacle of black towers and battlements piercing the dark clouds above, it stood on the highest of those fearsome peaks.
A magical spell had been cast upon the mountain range—a treacherous barrier of surging red lightning existed, so that no man may climb the ridge without being destroyed. Thus, it was told that the only way the inhabitants had come to the castle was by means of sorcery.
The estate was once owned and occupied by Lord Archonea. Being empty and abandoned for a score of years, the castle was now said to have been haunted by ghosts of those who once lived there. Its huge, gaping windows stared at me like black phantom eyes as I gazed at the mighty fortress. Many times had I dazedly looked upon its dark majesty while traveling through this land, but never felt so at peace to see it as I did this day.
The trail began to rear up a rather steep hill where the farmland thinned. When my black steed Wrathmane and I neared the top we came to a more barren stretch of ashen land, which I also recognized. There were small cottages in the distance, all appearing to have their doors and windows boarded up. This seemed strange to me, as there were often commoners outside, herding livestock as their wives tended gardens and barreled water from wells. Never before had I seen the place so desolate.
Reaching the top of the slope, I came upon a clearing bestrewn with tombstones and freshly-made graves in a large area surrounded by a crude, wooden fence. It was here that the path ran through and I found myself in a queer, newly-founded graveyard. This was unfamiliar to me, as I had been through this land many times and always it had been an empty, grassy space where local children would gather and play. Something horrible must have happened while I was away and I felt uneasy as I surveyed the dreary scene.
Hungry ravens perched upon the dead trees on each side and cawed as if in mockery of my dread. From my mount, I tried to read some of the names etched into the shale and granite headstones. I recognized many of them to be people I knew from these surrounding hamlets, as well as some of my home town. This disturbed me even more.
As I neared the final rows, there were some larger tombs and sepulchers. To my surprise, from behind one of these, stepped a short figure. It was a young maiden, probably fifteen or sixteen years of age. Her wet, tangled locks were dark brown and her face seemed pale as a corpse. She wore a faded blue dress which was torn and more disintegrated than the gear I had worn in recent battle. She stared at me blankly, not moving as I came closer. I urged Wrathmane to a halt and addressed the sad, ill-looking lass.
“Hail, girl. Tell me, what tragedy was it that brought about the need for a yard such as this? For it was not here when I passed through last.”
She remained silent and continued her blank gaze.
“Was there a plague or famine amongst the townsfolk?”
At this, she took a step back as if frightened, and crouched behind one of the tombstones, still leering at me eerily.
I looked at her closer and longer. Finally, I recognized the dame to be Yashanalla, fair daughter of Jondar Barthule, one of the more wealthy farmers of this poor land. I had spoken with her several times in the past when buying eggs and dried meat at the local market. She was always a kind and sweet maid with plenty to say and a pretty smile upon her face, but with her skin so filthy and her countenance in such a state as this, I barely could tell she was Barthule’s lovely daughter.
Seeing as the girl was frightened, I stepped down, dismounting from my horse, and crouched to her level.
“Ah, young Yashanalla… Now I can see who you are. It is I, Karnov, remember? I am surprised to find you this far from your home in a place such as this. Have you lost your way?”
Yashanalla looked deeply into my eyes. She appeared to be ravaged with grief, sorrow, and a strange sickness. Her face was pallid and tinged with a greenish hue. Tears welled in her bloodshot blue eyes which had dark circles beneath them. Slowly, the girl began walking toward me, arms outstretched as if longing for a comforting embrace. She reached out for me, and I pulled her into my arms.
“There, there, my child. There’s no need to fret. If you are lost or somehow separated from your family, I will see to it that you are brought safely home. For your father’s acreage is just down the road beyond that grove there. Don’t you remember?”
Her body trembled and she sobbed as I held her close, stroking her long hair in a loving manner. Gradually, she moved her hands up to my shoulders. I continued my attempt to comfort her, as the girl was obviously upset and terribly traumatized for some reason. Her crying stopped for a moment, and she slyly moved her head so that her face was closer to my neck.
Suddenly, Yashanalla gripped my shoulders tightly, alarming me. Her head reared back and I looked up to see two huge fangs elongate from her mouth. Her eyes widened and she made a sort of hissing sound as she violently attempted to bite down into my throat. Just before her fangs could pierce my flesh, I quickly threw her from me and tumbled across the ground, drawing my sword as I arose.
The girl was up on her feet in an instant and immediately lunged toward me. Her body hit me with a force uncanny for one her size. I was knocked down and rolled with her across the dirt road until we hit a row of graves. There we wrestled, her in a state of frenzied bloodlust, and me struggling for my life. None of Suntha Guull’s horrors I had faced in battle were as strong as this child, and nothing I could do would overpower her.
Yashanalla was on top of me, hissing and thrashing about, trying to once again get a clear shot at sinking teeth into my veins. Her eyes were terrible and insane-looking as venomous drool dripped from her deadly fangs. I saw an opportunity and struck her a blow to the face, just hard enough to barely knock her off me.
Quick as lightning, I leaped aside and raced to where my sword had fallen. Once again armed, I stood, ready to face another attack. She arose from the ground and shrieked madly as blood dripped from her mouth where I had struck her. Wailing like a banshee, she ran toward me, arms outstretched, ready to feast upon my mortal being. I knew what I had to do. I readied myself and the moment she came near enough, swung my sword with all my might. The blade hit home, severing through the girl’s neck. Blood sprayed out, painting gray tombstones red as the head of Yashanalla toppled to the earth, rolling like a ripened gourd at Autumn Solstice.
The body lay still in a vermillion pool. I stood catching my breath and trying to come to a realization at what had just happened. Indeed there must be some horrible sorcery at work here in this land that turns young ladies into undead monstrosities such as this. I sheathed my sword and walked over to my horse that was patiently waiting. Before mounting, I looked about—still no trace of anyone in sight, and no sound other than the crows’ mocking laughter.
Chapter II: Scars of Treachery (An Oath of Vengeance)
Hastening to return to my family, I came to a place where the road ended and dark woodland began. It was there that I had to travel through, as my hometown lay just beyond, on the other side of the thick woods. There were many stories about this forest and it was said to be haunted by werewolves. I myself had had few encounters with anything supernatural here, but there were always shrill cries sounding in the distance and an eerie fog engulfing the trees.
I rode along a path that continued on where the road had stopped. The thick foliage overhead caused weird shadows to dance among the antique bows and a screech owl shrieked, announcing the coming of night.
As the path wound, I saw a small hut just up ahead with black smoke pouring from its chimney. I knew it to be the abode of D’vartha, the mysterious witch who inhabited the forest. Many people of this land shun her as only an insane woman who prefers the company of forest beasts. Others claim she has awful powers and is extremely dangerous. I myself had witnessed a few weird things when passing by and she always struck up a conversation, usually attempting to lure me into various schemes of witchcraft or sexual intimacy. On a few occasions she had succeeded…
As I approached, D’vartha was kneeling outside the hovel, tending a garden of incandescent plants and herbs that seemed to move of their own accord as she touched them. She did not look up from her work as she acknowledged my coming.
“Greetings, Karnov. How did the battle fare?”
“Greetings, witch,” I replied as I urged my mount to stop briefly. “I’m afraid I have no time for you today. I must be moving on.”
D’vartha stood and turned to face me. She wore a stained and ragged tightly-fitting white dress. Long crimson hair framed her pale face and fell down to her sleekly curved body. Her countenance was fair and dark lines lay beneath her emerald-colored eyes that blazed wildly. The wench always portrayed a slight appearance of madness, but she was beautiful to me in a strange way.
“Ah, I can sense bitterness in your voice,” she said. “What ails you, warrior? Surely whatever it is, I can be of help.”
“What do you know of the newly-made gravesite over yonder hill?” I asked. “It was not there when I departed. And why are all the houses boarded up?”
“What I know is that there has been evil at work in these lands during the past weeks that you have been gone.” The enchantress smirked. “Much evil indeed… You know of the castle upon the mountaintop?”
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