A few days had passed uneventfully. The Duke had not returned and the time had come to raise the anchor. In the light of the rising sun, the Pride of Astvar set sail south, leaving the cold, hostile north behind. They were sailing back home to the world they knew well. A world without Gods; a world without dragons.
END
From the tales of the White Knight
I. The Fortress.
The alarm trumpet tears through the silence of the night. Boots thump on the stones; a cry in the darkness, a swish of the sword. A man falls.
“A spy! A spy!”
A rider leaps out of the gate, on a black stallion. Arrows fly after him from the walls. More horses ride out in pursuit. The white mare in front is fast, faster even than the black steed. The lariat loops around the runaway horse’s rear legs; it falls down. The hooded figure scrambles up and starts running across the empty steppe. The white mare catches up to him in no time. The rider jumps down, pinning the fugitive to the grass.
“Get me the torch!”
The other riders surround the pair. One of them climbs down and approaches the hooded figure with a flaming brand. The small, cunning eyes of a Trilling stare back at him with hatred.
Aq’churuc is the keystone fortress. It lies in the centre of the arcing belt of walls, dykes and ditches, guarding the steppe south of the Dragon Mountains. Two more fortresses enclose the ring from both sides.
The barbarians are not a major threat anymore; no raiding party crossed the wall in two generations. But there are villages outside of the fortified boundary that need protecting from Trilling raiders. Pioneers, working ceaselessly to turn the fertile steppe soil into wheat fields and apple orchards. Only the best of Eilill horsemen can join the ranks of the famous Aq’churuc Uhlans.
No raiding party crossed the wall in two generations… and yet now the horizon is black with men. The enemy army spreads from East to West, like a storm front, approaching steadily. There is no nuance in the army’s movement, no skirmishers, no scouts, no hurry; just a great mass, a moving wall sent out to defeat the standing wall.
The Aq’churuc commander consults his staff and then orders the Black Arrow to be sent to Graak City. It takes a while to find the arrow in the war chest; it’s never been used before. The Black Arrow is not a warning, or a request for reinforcements. It’s a farewell.
The Black Arrow from Aq’churuc reaches Graak on the same day as two other arrows. The other two commanders, not yet aware of the full scale of the invasion, request assistance. They yet think the barbarian army can be stopped.
Graak City lies on the only pass through the Dragon Mountains; it’s surrounded by six tall walls and six strong gates. The name means “Teeth” in some ancient language, and the low, squat towers lining the sixth wall make it look like a grinning jaw.
The commanders of the six rings gather in the keep for a debate. There is no other news from any of the border outposts, and they must assume the worst. The Trilling army is estimated at a hundred thousand or more; nobody ever suspected there were so many of them out in the steppe.
It takes four days to march from Aq’churuc to Graak. The enemy is not cruel; they burn the villages and ravage the fields, but allow the farmers to flee. In a few days the fortress fills with refugees and rumours. The news is not all bad: the barbarians bypassed the other two fortresses, not bothering to besiege them. They are that confident.
Every able bodied man from the region is called to defend Graak; the hardy mountain folk, armed with axes and flintlocks, fierce in battle. But there are not enough of them to man the six walls and six gates; there has been peace in the South for far too long.
Ten messengers ride out to the two outlying forts with orders to abandon them and try to reach Graak before the enemy. The South is lost.
The Gerrhere garrison is the first to return, using the secret hill paths known only to the locals. The gates of Graak close behind the last of the soldiers when the smoke fills the horizon; it’s the enemy, burning the villages in the foreground. It takes two hours more to reach Graak from Spineway, the other fortress. Two hours too long.
“It’s too late,” says the commander of the First Ring and turns away from the field.
“No, look!” cries the commander of the Second Ring, pointing to the horizon. An entire wing of the enemy army turns in a wide arc, like the arm of a giant, to face the new threat. Two thousand men – the entire garrison of Spineway – rides across the steppe, racing against time and the Trilling front guard.
“They’re not going to make it,” says the commander of the First Ring.
“They might if we sally forth.”
“And risk what few men we have?”
“Most of our men are uhlans. They’re not used to sieges, they would cause more damage to the enemy out in the field.”
The commander of the First Ring eyes the walls of Graak. All defenders came out onto the ramparts to cheer the men of Spineway. Not enough, he thinks. Something tells him that no matter how many more soldiers he’d have, it would not be enough for the black mass pouring into the valley below.
The riders push on, hacking their way through the Trilling horde. One falls down, then another. They don’t stop, knowing the gates of Graak are their only hope. But they will never reach it in time. The cries on the ramparts weaken; doubt creeps into the hearts of defenders. If the Spineway garrison is destroyed in full view of the fortress, the entire battle will be lost before it even begins.
“Saddle up,” says the commander of the First Ring. “We’ll show these barbarians the Graak Bite.”
II. The Crown
The King rises from his bed. There’s no way he can sleep. Nobody in the castle can sleep tonight. Not after the dire news from the South. Graak fell! The enemy crossed the mountains!
There is some good news among the gloom. Graak might have fallen, but the battle was so long and fierce that the barbarian army had to stop and rest in the hills before moving onwards. There is still time to prepare the defences of the capital, to gather the armies from all four corners of the Kingdom.
But the King does not think of armies, warriors and victories. He leaves it to his strategists. He knows there are matters of far greater importance than life or death of the people of Eilill. He, Heimir the Wise, knows that if there is a force determined to destroy his Kingdom, it will do so no matter how many valiant knights fall in battle.
He alone did not bat an eyelid when the messenger gave the estimate of the enemy army. A hundred thousand? Two hundred? It made no difference. There are billions of evil creatures on all the inhabited worlds; all you need to do is gather them around for one purpose and unite under one command.
He climbs down the long winding stair to the dungeon. It’s cold and damp. A hidden door; another flight of stairs, carved in the living rock of Eilill. The foundation of the world. The castle was the first building on this planet; the hill it stands on is known as The First Hill.
It’s more than a legend. Heimir is descended from the long line of rulers, the first of which came to this world more thousands of years ago. The first King was the servant of the Creators; he knew them, talked to them, learned from them. Now his bones are buried somewhere in these underground tunnels. And the Creators… have long gone, leaving the people of Eilill to protect what they have left behind.
Heimir pauses to rest. He leans against the rock, and feels it pulsate. He senses the earth being ravaged and torn by a force not of this world.
I was right, he thinks, and is not happy. This is not just another Trilling invasion. We need help.
All the nobles are gathered in the throne room, listening intently to the King. They look at each other, uncertain how to react.
“It happened in my father’s days,” says Heimir. “A knight in silver armour arrived at Eilillgaer Castle, riding a horse as black as the Shadow. He had only one request:
‘I am being pursued by forces beyond your imagining. Forces of evil and darkness. All I need is a plot of land to build
a hideout.’
My Father spoke with him for the entire night. In the morning he gave the strange visitor an escort of the finest men of the Royal Guard, and bid him farewell. The White Knight disappeared somewhere in the far North, and we haven’t heard from him since.
You must seek him. On his deathbed, my Father told me that when the Shadow comes, and the world stands on the edge, the White Knight will be our only chance of survival.”
The King sits down on his throne; the tale ended. The nobles murmur. The eldest of them remember the story of the White Knight, but few believe its importance. An outsider, a magician from off world, what good can his help be?
“My King,” says Gunthar, the Heimir’s only son. “We don’t understand. The Shadow? The edge of the world? Surely, it’s nothing but a barbarian invasion. Larger than any in living memory, true, but nothing we can’t…”
“Oh, Gunthar…” Heimir replies, shaking his head, “You alone should know. Have you forgotten what I taught you? Have you forgotten the Foundation of Eilill?”
Gunthar blinks. He opens his mouth and then closes. He cannot speak of that which is most sacred, but he now understands.
“My King, I will make certain to send the messengers to the furthest corners of Eilill. To Caldor, to Derra, even to Tyria Wood. At once!”
The King nods and his face brightens. Gunthar runs out of the throne room, shouting orders to the Royal Guard.
Regin, Count of Caldor lives an easy life. His County is fertile and rich, his family is peaceful and loving, his son is talented and handsome. Caldor lies in the north-eastern corner of Eilill, far from the dangers of any war. The entire kingdom would have to fall before the enemy came to Caldor.
First comes the recruiter, calling all warriors to the defence of the realm. All that Caldor can muster is three hundred light riders and a couple of nobles wearing ancient armour and heirloom swords. But the King demands more.
“What about the footmen?” the courier asks. “This is a well peopled country.”
“I can send my peasants armed with forks and scythes. Is that what the court wants?”
“This isn’t just another raid. This is a proper war. We need all the men.”
The Count sighs. “Give me two weeks. I will have your footmen.”
No sooner does the first courier leave for the capital, when another one arrives; his message is much more mysterious.
“Artir, my son,” the Count calls on his young heir. “Do you want to be famed in stories as the one who saved Eilill from certain doom?”
Artir Reginson is twenty, his hair is thick and long, and brown, like his eyes. He wears the black-and-silver tunic of Caldor. He is a good heir; a good swordsman, smart and well-read.
“I don’t understand, Father,” he says.
“What do you know of the Knight of the White Tower?”
“The one who rules Dan Eleer?”
“Yes.”
Artir thinks. He was once in the green dale of Dan Eleer, on the eastern border of the County. The lord of this land has no name; he lives in a tall tower of white stone, wears white clothes, and is rarely seen outside his castle. This is all Artir knows, and he repeats it to his father.
“Very well,” the Count nods. “Now, hear the tale of how the White Knight came to Caldor.”
III. White Knight.
Bright sun rises over the hilltops of Dan Eleer. Wind rustles the trees and brings with it the morning rooster’s call.
Artir rides down the market road to Eirdanel, a small town underneath the White Tower. He knows little of his mission. The White Knight has lived for over a generation in his remote valley in peace, until everyone except the Count and his sons forgot about his existence.
Artir remembers his father’s words. “I didn’t tell the court messenger about Dan Eleer. They don’t know he’s here. We will keep the glory of finding Eilill’s saviour all to ourselves.”
He crosses the Eirdanel market square, rides up a narrow path to the top of the forested hill and reaches the White Tower. He is in awe; the walls are made of a stone which is not of this world. It radiates its own white light, and the air around it shimmers as it does over the campfire. He dismounts and touches the wall – it’s cold as ice.
He knocks on the great wooden gate. The noise reverberates inside. Nothing happens. He wants to run away. There is no magic in Eilill; even a mention of it makes people nervous. But this castle is all made of magic.
Maybe he’s dead. It’s been so long…
The lock clicks. The door screeches open, just enough to let him in. The inside is dark and cold, it smells of a stale cellar. Artir’s horse neighs nervously.
He enters and is enveloped by darkness. The walls are lined with a stone which is the reverse of the outside: instead of radiating the light, it absorbs it greedily.
Nobody welcomes him. Artir closes the gate shut; he doesn’t know why. The corridor is now completely black. He walks on, blind. He reaches what seems like the stairs, and climbs carefully up. The staircase spirals; the surface of the stone here is warm and soft. He sees light coming from the top floor.
It’s beaming through the small window, illuminating a narrow corridor leading to the door marked with the crest of a rampant dragon, sable a gules. Two sets of plate armour stand in the hall: one is black like ebony, the other silver white; the helmets are missing.
The door at the end of the corridor is slightly ajar. Artir pushes it open.
A scabbard is hanging over the bed, angled so that the knight can draw the sword with one swift move. It is a plain, black scabbard, with a red line running through the middle. The sword’s hilt is in the shape of a black dragon’s head with the eye of glowing ruby.
The White Knight is sitting on the bed. He lifts his head and looks at Artir. His eyes are sad and beautiful. His hair is black; his face elfin, bright, ageless. There is nothing human about him. For one blink, his eyes are the vertical slits of a snake; they are wise with the wisdom of countless millennia. Artir sways from the impact of this gaze. He sees death and flame.
“You are a Dragon,” he whispers.
The knight rises; his shadow falls on the wall. Artir thinks he can see great leathery wings, but it’s just a trick of light.
“I can kill you without moving a hand,” the knight says. “Why are you here?”
The White Knight listens to the story, nodding only. When Artir finishes, the knight draws the sword from the scabbard and puts it to Artir’s neck. It’s a short weapon, even for a one-hander, and surprisingly plain. A row of Chaos Runes runes along the fuller.
“Go back where you came from and take your father’s army to Eilillgaer. You’re wasting your time here.”
“But the King…”
“I pity you and your world, but I can do nothing against the Shadow. Not anymore.”
The Knight looks at his sword in surprise. The runes shimmer with white light.
“Well I’ll be…”
IV. War
Heimir opens the chest of yellow crystal.
“This is the Crown of Abyss,” he says. The White Knight pulls back, his eyes narrow.
“Now I understand,” he says and turns to the King. “This is a war like no other. Do you know what power stands against you, Heimir?”
“More or less,” the old King replies. “I know who created Eilill and why. The Gods tasked us with defending the Crown against the Shadow. The time has come.”
“Not Gods,” the Knight shakes his head. “But I suppose they might seem so to you.”
“Is there hope?” asks Heimir.
“I don’t know. I know not who commands the army, who are the soldiers nor what world did they come from … I need more information.”
“But… is there hope?”
The knight does not answer. Heimir nods his head, sadly.
“Still, we shall fight,” he says. “We shall not give up.”
“We shall fight.”
Heimir looks up at the knight. “Why
did you come?”
The man shrugs. “A Change is coming. I can feel it. I was in darkness for too long. I will lead your armies, to triumph or defeat.”
Heimir doesn’t really understand the knight’s words, but he nods again.
“We will strike here, and here,” the White Knight says, pointing at the belt of green marsh. “The patrols must catch all the scouts; knowledge of the terrain is our only advantage. We will push the enemy towards the lake.”
“Now…” he hesitates. “Me and the Captain of the Guards will lead the main charge. I need someone trustworthy to lead the second wing.” He looks around. “Artir Reginson, what do you think about your men?”
Artir replies without hesitation. “They will follow me into hellfire.”
“They may wish they have by the time this ends.
The White Knight lifts his sword to the sun and cries out:
“Dairon Aerondge!”
A rock, floating slowly in the void between the worlds, shakes. A black shape slithers out of the cave. Great jaws open wide, and the beast lets out a roar.
It was asleep for three centuries; but it was just one night for the creature. It spreads the great black wings and leaps off the rock, into the starless void.
Artir sees what’s flying over the battlefield, but does not yet believe it. There’s no such thing as dragons. It’s a fairy tale. And yet here it is, black like coal, the size of a mountain, breaking through the clouds over the Caldor light cavalry and destroying everything in its path. The battle is won with ease.
Artir comes back to the camp; the army is triumphant, but the White Knight is not cheering with others. He’s in his tent, brooding. Artir enters.
“Who… what are you?” he asks. The knight looks up and speaks.
The Dragon Knights called me the Traitor; as if they’d forgotten that He Who Does Not Bear the Helmet is not bound by laws or oaths. I could always choose the side freely. For long centuries I wore black armour; and I liked it. They called me the Destroyer. I was the Death incarnated:the greatest and the most deadly of the Dragon Knights.
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