“Get your shirt, young Dhamon Grimwulf, and come visit with me and my men.”
Heart hammering wildly in his chest, Dhamon retrieved his shirt, donning it and brushing at the dirt stains as he ran as fast as his legs would carry him toward the camp. He combed his hair with his fingers and tried to look every bit as proud and confident as the bemused Knights who assembled to meet him.
“This is Dhamon Grimwulf of Hartland,” the commander said, introducing him to a half-dozen men sharpening and polishing their swords. “He wants to be a Dark Knight.”
Only one of the Knights extended his hand and nodded a greeting.
“And perhaps he will be one of us one day,” the commander continued. “In a few years. Frendal, show him around the camp, let him help set up a few tents, handle your sword. But make sure you send him home before sunset. I don’t want him getting into trouble with his family on our account.”
Perhaps he will be a Knight one day. Dhamon was instantly crestfallen, though he hid his disappointment. One day. Why not now?
Frendal, he learned, was the second-in-command of the force. Originally from Winterholm in Coastlund, he had joined the Dark Knights a dozen years earlier when he was seventeen. He’d spent the first few years stationed in the Northern Wastes and in Nightlund. Now a courier had brought an important message, and Frendal’s unit was returning to Nightlund. Frendal would reveal nothing else about their mission to Dhamon, though he regaled him with tales of battles against goblins.
“Can you fight?” Frendal asked teasingly as he passed his sword to Dhamon for inspection.
Dhamon held the sword almost reverently, finding it heavier than it looked. He admired the detail on the pommel and the crosspiece.
“It was a gift from my mother,” Frendal said. “She was a Dark Knight, too.”
“I’ve never had the opportunity to fight,” Dhamon admitted, “but I could fight. I know I could.” He stepped back and imitated a few of the sparring moves he’d seen practiced by the Knights. “I learn quickly.”
Frendal’s eyes twinkled. “I believe you do.”
The day ended all too abruptly for Dhamon, and by sunset he was back home and helping his mother set the table. His brother had told the family that he was hobnobbing with the Dark Knights, and it was the sole topic of dinner conversation.
His father was angry about it. “The Dark Knights are evil and despicable,” he said, finger wagging and eyes narrowed onto Dhamon. “They’re vile men who wage war against the righteous. If you’ve a desire to be a Knight, we’ll look into that next spring or more likely the spring after next. When I take the older ewes to the markets north of Solanthus, we’ll inquire about the likelihood of your joining the Solamnic Knights. Mind you, it’s a hard life, and dangerous, and if you pass the training you could be sent halfway across the world. But the Solamnics would be a damn far sight better than the Dark Knights. Though I’d rather see you spend your life working this farm, I’ll not deter you. There is much to be said for service.” The elder Grimwulf took several forkfuls of potatoes. “But you’ve a few years to think about all of this. You might change your mind.”
But he wasn’t punished or forbidden. Unlike some of Dhamon’s friends, he knew his father wouldn’t force him to be a farmer or a goatherd. He wouldn’t be obligated to work this farm when he grew older. His father was a staunch advocate of free will and following one’s heart, as he’d left home at a relatively early age to do what he pleased, so Dhamon knew his life’s ambition would be his own… in just a few short years.
“The Dark Knights…”
“—are not for you,” his father quickly cut in, “and you’re not to go out there again. Everyone in town has the sense to stay away from whatever it is the Knights are doing out there.”
Practicing, Dhamon wanted to say. Drilling and practicing and waiting for another courier before they left for Nightlund. But he said nothing. He finished his meal in silence and nodded politely as his father detailed tomorrow’s chores.
Dhamon got up before the sun the next day, finishing the bulk of his work before he again found himself between Hartford and the Vingaard River, lying in the grass and observing the Knights. He slipped back home to finish his duties shortly before noon. Then he artfully eluded his younger brother and returned to the field again before dinner. He told his father he was going to a friend’s, and he didn’t consider it entirely a lie. The commander and Frendal had been friendly enough to him. If his father discovered his ruse, he would be punished, but any punishment would be worth the chance to spend more time with these Knights.
How many more days would they stay here? he wondered, hoping the courier was coming from some great distance and wouldn’t arrive for perhaps a few more weeks. He saw nothing despicable or evil about these Knights, and they certainly weren’t vile in their attitude towards him. They were exceedingly clever men, he thought, noting their routine. Their tents were pitched in straight rows, but each row offset the next, so to the undiscerning eye it would appear the tents were haphazardly scattered. There was a pattern to the patrols, but it had taken Dhamon two days of studying the pattern and scratching notes in the dirt to figure it out, and he knew no enemy would decipher it without doing the same.
He felt he couldn’t approach them again, unless invited. Twice he caught Frendal looking toward the willow, and he suspected the Knight might have spotted him, in spite of his precautions and silence.
Let them figure out I’m here, he thought, that I’m interested. The more Dhamon thought about it, the more he knew he wanted to join the Order. He didn’t want to wait until next spring or the spring after that to become a Solamnic Knight. He no longer wanted to become a Solamnic anyway.
The drumming started again, and again the men lined up to spar. This time the attackers were using a variety of weapons—spears, flails, maces, even some crude and unusual-looking hatchets and polearms, perhaps of goblin make.
“Maybe they’re going to fight a hobgoblin army and they want to practice how to defend against their weapons,” he mused. “Glorious!” The thought of such a battle ignited a passion in him that he hadn’t known existed. He felt his face flush. Frendal had said they were heading deep into Nightlund, and it was common knowledge that there were goblins, hobgoblins, ogres, and trolls there. “Maybe Frendal will tell me what they’re planning if I sneak up and catch his eye….”
That hope died in a sharp breeze that swelled up out of nowhere, cutting the heat and flattening the grass. The shadows stretched to their limits and whipped about in the growing wind.
“What in…”
A heartbeat later his question was answered. A shadow cut across the setting sun, and Dhamon felt his throat constrict. He could scarcely catch his breath, and there was a rushing sound in his ears. It was a dragon coming in from the northwest, and the mere sight of it caused Dhamon to shake uncontrollably. He didn’t know at the time that dragons wore an aura of fear the way a soldier wears a uniform. A dragon can cause entire towns to flee in terror. A dragon can also control its fear-magic, as the one landing was doing now, so the Dark Knights could stand unaffected in its imperious presence.
Yet Dhamon continued to shiver, and tears spilled from his eyes. He parted the grass so he could see what was going on. He was amazed and frightened all in the same instant, so frightened he couldn’t budge, though his mind told him he should, ordered his legs to run as fast as they could to take him as far away from here as possible. Dhamon slammed his mouth shut to keep his teeth from clattering, and his fingers nervously worked into the dirt.
The dragon was blue. In the sunlight its color looked like the surface of a wind-tossed lake, scales shimmering a vibrant hue and appearing to be constantly in motion. The creature tucked its wings to its sides and thumped its tail against the ground once, the force sending two nearby Knights to their knees. Its huge equine-shaped head was all planes and angles yet somehow beautifully elegant. Its eyes were catlike slits of brightest yellow inside black orbs,
filled with cunning and intelligence.
One rider sat on the dragon, dressed in a full suit of plate armor and wearing a heavily lined wool cloak that was out of place in the summer weather. As the rider slid from the dragon’s back, he was quick to remove the cloak and helmet. Dhamon guessed the man was in his early twenties—so young, and riding a dragon! He passed a trio of bound scroll tubes to the Knight Commander. Dhamon noted that the dragon tipped its head to the commander—a dragon offering a human a measure of respect!
“I will be a Dark Knight,” Dhamon whispered to himself, “and someday I will ride a dragon, too.”
He’d heard tales of the Knights of Takhisis dragon-riders, and all his life he’d heard about the dragons of Krynn, but never had he actually seen one. This grand creature yielded to these men—to these Knights. He recalled that his father said he’d seen a dragon once, a bronze one when he was a young man traveling with friends in the Vingaard Mountains just north of Brasdel. His father said he’d never been more frightened, yet he somehow couldn’t run away. He simply watched with fascination as the creature rode the air currents above the highest mountains, searching for… something, he could tell.
“Seeing your first dragon, son, is something you will never, ever forget,” he said. And Dhamon knew he wouldn’t forget, he’d lock away this time in his memory and tell his own children about what he’d witnessed, someday.
The commander and the courier talked for several minutes. Straining to hear what was said, Dhamon picked out mention of Nightlund and Throtl. He heard clearly that the men would break camp at dawn. Eventually the courier left, the great blue dragon knocking the Knights to their knees with the force it created as its wings beat to carry it high into the darkening sky. Dhamon watched the dragon depart, still trembling, still crying from fright, more determined than ever now to join these men.
The dragon circled the camp once, then banked to the north, wings spread wide and gliding with the wind. Dhamon’s eyes never left the dragon until it became a speck of ink in the sky and then disappeared entirely from view. He imagined it was heading to the northern desert. He’d heard blue dragons relished the sand and heat. He was able to pick himself up from the ground then, as the trembling finally subsided. He washed in the creek, discovering that he’d soiled himself in his fear. He returned home a few hours after the sun had set, climbing through the window and into the small bedroom he shared with his brother.
He would never be a Solamnic Knight like his friend Trenken Hagenson. He would become a Dark Knight! And he wasn’t about to wait another year for it to happen. Silent as a cat, he gathered a few changes of clothes in a canvas sack and thrust two steel pieces he’d saved into his pocket. He wanted to tell his brother good-bye, but he didn’t dare wake him—then risk having his parents wake, too. They’d only stop him, or try to. He crept into the kitchen, looking for some peaches—he’d skipped dinner watching the Knights, and his stomach was rumbling. One last look around the home, which held mostly pleasant memories, then he quietly closed the door behind him.
Dhamon hadn’t made it much past the tool shed when he sensed he was being watched. He stopped but kept his eyes trained north.
“Don’t stop me, father. I have to do this. You know this life isn’t for me. I will never be a farmer.”
There was the crunch of boots over the dry earth, the sound of hands smoothing at clothes, the clearing of his father’s throat. His father stood only a few feet behind him. “Dhamon, the Dark Knights are despicable,” he repeated. “You’re a good son, and you’ll be a good man. This path you want to head down, it’s not for you.”
“The Dark Knights aren’t evil. I’ve been watching them, father. They are admirable, honorable men.” Dhamon turned. In the twilight, with the stars just starting to appear, his father’s face was indistinct, but he could sense that it was etched with sadness and concern.
“I have to choose my own path, father, like you did. And I want to do this now. No. I have to do this.”
Dhamon was going to say other things; that his father might succeed in stopping him now, but maybe not the next time and certainly could not hold him here forever. That he had no desire to be a Solamnic Knight come next spring or the spring after that. He wanted to go with the Knights now. But Dhamon didn’t say anything else, he simply watched as his father drew his hands up to the back of his neck and unfastened the clasp of a chain.
“I was only a year older than you when I went off on my own,” his father said, the resignation heavy in his voice, “and your mother would cry if she knew I was letting you go now. But I wager if I stop you now, I’ll only be keeping you here for a little while longer. Still, I’ve a hope you’ll see this all as a foolish notion and come back sooner or later.”
He held the chain in one palm. Dhamon’s father had worn the chain every day of every year. Dhamon had never seen him take it off, until now. “My father gave this to me the day I left home.” The chain was silver, sparkling faintly, and from it dangled an old gold coin with worn edges. Dhamon moved closer. There was a man’s profile on the coin, bearded and with an unusual-looking helmet topped by a dangling plume from which hung a “1”. The man’s eye was a tiny, bluish diamond.
“Ours is a very old family, Dhamon,” his father said. “We trace our roots to Istar. More than eight hundred years before the Cataclysm, Istarians traded throughout the world. Our ancestors were said to have been among the richest merchants, owning a grand fleet and commanding shares in every caravan that crossed the interior.”
Dhamon nodded, remembering some of the stories his father had told and retold after dinner on special occasions.
“These merchants set aside their work during the Third Dragon War and took up weapons. Then they took up shovels and began to help people rebuild and prosper. One of our ancestors, Haralin Grimwulf, chose to aid the dwarves.”
“I remember the story,” Dhamon said. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, wanting to leave before his father managed to say something that would change his mind and make him stay.
“It was shortly after the war that the dwarves of Thorbardin were granted rights to mine in the Garnet Mountains. This was said to be the very first coin minted from there.” His father pointed to the “1” and to the diamond. “This is an extremely special coin. No other exists just like it, not even in the great storehouses in Palanthas.”
Worth a great deal because it was gold and set with a diamond, Dhamon knew, worth more if indeed it was so ancient and singular—certainly worth enough to buy his father a large farm and livestock. A true relic, a true family legacy.
“This coin was given by the dwarves to Haralin—for his help in the Third Dragon War and for working with them as they established the garnet mine. It has been passed down through the centuries from father to son. And now I’m giving it to you.” He placed it around Dhamon’s neck and tucked the coin under the V of his shirt. “Go to your Dark Knights, son. I’ve every confidence you’ll eventually learn you’ve no place with them and that you’ll either come home or find some other grand adventure. When you settle down, and when you raise your own family—though you may be very far from here—give this coin to your own first son and tell him of our Istar roots.”
His father’s eyes were watery, but he did not cry.
“I will pass this on to my first son,” Dhamon vowed, “but I will find a place with the Dark Knights, father.” And I will ride the dragons, he added to himself. “You will be proud of me.” Then, gladdened that his father hadn’t stopped him, he turned and sprinted away so his father wouldn’t see his own tears. He didn’t stop running until he reached the Knights’ camp.
* * *
“Dhamon Grimwulf,” the field commander cried when he spotted him approaching beyond the last row of tents.
The sky was caught between night and morning, those hazy few moments when the world appears indecisive about whether to go on. There’s a silence then, the animals seeming to hold their breath in anticipation. Then
the line of rosy pink touches the far horizon, the birds start singing, and Krynn announces yes, there will be another day.
“I am going to be a Dark Knight,” Dhamon stated. His shoulders were square, his chin thrust out, his eyes filled with a fierce determination. He expected the field commander to repeat that he was too young, to send him back home, but that didn’t happen.
“Help Frendal with his tent,” the commander returned jauntily. “We’ll be leaving soon for Nightlund. We’re going to join up with another unit. You will have much to learn along the way, young Grimwulf. And if you pass the tests….” There was a pause, and the commander looked Dhamon over carefully.
“I will pass all of your tests, Sir.”
“Then I will be the first to welcome you into the fold.”
* * *
There were times when Dhamon swore he was too tired to sleep. There was no part of him that didn’t ache; his arms especially ached—from carrying supplies and practicing with a sword. His fingers were so calloused they bled for days, and just when he thought they’d started to heal he was given a new weapon to learn and heavier packs to carry, and they’d start bleeding all over again. He never entertained the notion of quitting, though the field commander had asked him if he cared to quit on more than one occasion. Each night he tugged the ancient coin from beneath his shirt, ran his thumb around the edge, and wondered what his family was doing.
Dhamon had expected the training to be rigorous, but he also expected some amount of glamor and excitement—and of course battles. All around him the men sparred and sharpened their weapons, polished their armor and talked about the ogres they expected to fight in Nightlund. Dhamon was left out of most conversations, though Frendal seemed to make it a point to chat with him once in a while. Once he even asked Dhamon about the old coin, and Dhamon welcomed the opportunity to regale him with the tale of the ancient Istarian merchant who’d been rewarded by the dwarves. But mostly Dhamon kept to himself and watched and waited, and in the quiet time when he had a break, he often practiced alone with a borrowed weapon.
[Dhamon 03] - Redemption Page 8