Knights of the Dawn (Arcanum of the Dolmen Troll Book 1)

by R. J. Eveland

  “Help yourself to some leftovers.” Spywater snatched the very last honeycake. “But this is mine.”

  A greasy hunk of roast rose through the air and entered Bob’s mouth, dripping juices across the tabletop. Somehow in that moment, a splatter of grease ended up on his forehead. He followed Spywater out of the keep and into the sunlit bailey.

  The sun smacked them both hard and fast, absorbing the moisture in their hair. “Damn, it’s hot,” Spywater complained. “Best to enjoy the sun while we can, I guess. The seasons soon change.”

  Loud chewing from behind was the only response.

  Spywater was pleased that his knights had left the castle as commanded, but he cursed angrily when he noticed the gate was wide open. Lady Lossex could be seen running down the road towards the village, chewing on a loaf of bread.

  “Fortunately, your fellow lords haven’t arrived yet.” Spywater quickened his pace. “Allow me to close the gate before we begin.” While struggling with the crossbar, he japed, “Imagine what your fellow lords would think if they saw us together like this.”

  Bob just frowned at that and ripped another mouthful from the hunk in his hand. It wasn’t long before they were on the ramparts. Together, they moseyed to the spot where Jax and Bob had enjoyed their duel. The dick-helm glimmered ardently atop a stool. It seemed someone had put it there intentionally after cleaning away the blood and bodies. Bob tossed the half-eaten roast over his shoulder to swipe up the famous, phallic helm. The thing sparkled immensely like a small explosion in his hand. “My helm!” He kissed it with greasy lips. The smile on his face was the biggest smile Spywater had ever seen.

  “I’ll never understand you.” Spywater gave the man a long, respectful stare. “For such a brutal man, you sure are … I don’t know the right word. There’s something innocent about a man with the down, something that makes me a bit jealous.”

  “Father said my condition is a blessing in disguise.” Bob held his helm under an arm, wiping his mouth. “He said I’m saved from what torments most men.” He struggled with his words, but spoke on, “Father said to never stop being a child, to face my blessing with pride. But I don’t want to be a child. I’m a man!”

  Spywater leaned against a merlon and sighed, gazing off at his small village down the road. Peasants were driving ox across the furrows, herding sheep into pastures and casting trawls in the lake. “Being a lord … many things do torment you … many small subtle things that add up to drive you old and mad. I wish I could be a child again, or one of those peasants in the field.”

  “Ha!” Bob raised his chin. “Peasants are poor and dirty! I’m the Lord of Castle Redmand!”

  “You’re the last surviving man in your family, Bob, just like me. I was told I should remarry and raise a son, but it’s too late for that.” Spywater put a gentle gauntlet on Bob’s padded shoulder. “What about you, Bob? Are you going to marry? It would be a shame to see your name vanish.”

  Bob bit his lower lip. “I already have a son. But I can’t find him. He’s a bastard, Father said, unfit to be his grandson.”

  “Listen to some advice, Bob. No one else is going to tell you what I’m about to say. No one will tell you because they want to use you. They want to use your sword. They want you to be their tool. One day they will ask you to die for them. They regale you with tales of glory to control you.”

  The brazen blast of a trumpet sounded from the distance. Far down the road, emerging from the village, was a blend of blurry helms and horses, an army of colorful bodies wobbling in the distance. With them were dozens of standard-bearers, all of them holding colors that any scout could recognize. Among them most was the charge of King Spiderwell, a golden sandpiper on a brown baobab tree. Bob jumped with joy at the sight, cheering and clapping. Spywater’s grip hardened on his shoulder. The childish man turned to bite his lip at the lord again.

  “Listen, Bob.” Something miserable and depressing weighed down Spywater’s voice. “I thought I knew what life was about. I thought I had it all. But life isn’t about glory. It isn’t about victory, Bob. It’s not about being a man or serving your king or building a castle and hurling stones at your enemies. It’s about love, Bob. It’s about creating and sharing love!”

  Bob’s shoulder must’ve been squeezed too hard. He smacked Spywater’s hand away. “What are you talking about, Spywater? You’re scaring me!”

  The blue lord fetched a deep breath to simmer himself down, to drown the spider in his throat. “Bob, listen.” His voice was calm now. “Today may be my last day on Meliva. You, though, you have many years left. You’re a blessed man, Bob. More blessed than most. You’re a leader. And it’s time to lead yourself away from this war, away from the men that seek to exploit you. These people you see marching towards us will call themselves your friends. But we both know they’ll just mock you behind your back. You said it yourself. Lord Montese was supposed to sally out after you fired the cannyn, but he didn’t. He lied to you, just like these men will. So don’t waste your potential in their meaningless war. They play a pathetic game of power that means little or nothing to common folk. I see good in you, Bob. I see strength. Strength from within. You’ve more strength than me. I guess all I’m trying to say is you don’t have to die a tormented man like most of us lords and knights. You don’t have to die without experiencing the simpler, beautiful side of life.” The quacks of passing gulls made Spywater pause. He closed his eyes briefly as if the sound pleased him.

  Bob scratched his head. He thought he understood what Spywater was saying, but another trumpet blast distracted him. King Spiderwell’s lords were nearly halfway down the stretch to the castle. Bob was able to make out more details now. He counted how many spearmen they had until Spywater’s words somehow wiggled back into focus. Bob turned and replied, “Father told me men of peace leave the best legacies behind. Men of war only leave legacies of death and deception.”

  “Your father was a wise man,” Spywater agreed. “Wars fought with trickery and deception are praised only to lead young men to false glory. Your father was a man of peace. He supported King Spiderwell with his men, but he never took up his own sword. He shouldn’t have died the way he did.” Spywater wiped a tear away and looked back at his keep. “Now let’s go. I’ll let you out of the gate. They’ll call you a traitor if they see us together.”

  Bob took one last look at the approaching army before he turned to follow the blue lord towards the stairs. Moments later they were at the gate. Spywater took the crossbar out, pushed the gate ajar and beckoned Bob to leave. For some reason, Bob hesitated. All those marching allies in the distance were expecting a feast. It made him wonder what would happen next.

  “Go, Bob,” Spywater ushered. “And remember what I told you. Don’t let those men take your life away from you. Lead yourself to real happiness no matter what they say.”

  Arms went flying up to wrap around Spywater. Bob slobbered on his blue cloak as they hugged. “I’ll remember you, Spywater. I’ll remember what you said.”

  With a farewell, Spywater closed the gate.

  Outside, Bob turned to face the road and listened to the crossbar slide back in place. King Spiderwell’s high banners were clear as ever now, streaming close with the footfalls of a hundred men. Alongside all those golden sandpipers, Bob realized the banner of Lord Highcross, a black bridge on a field of white, and the charge of Lord Archester, a silver arrowhead on a sea of orange. With those was the sinister standard of Lord Hickens, a red skull before a checkered green and black backdrop.

  It was a sight that should’ve been beyond pleasing, but Bob found himself staring at fishermen on the lake instead. The fishermen were casting trawls, ignoring the marching soldiers as if they were just a lot of ants marching towards an anthill. After a time, Bob’s eyes wandered back and he realized the approaching soldiers were poorly equipped. Nearly all of them had shields. Still, he knew how easy it’d be for a sally to mow that pathetic box down. It made him wonder why lords would bring so ma
ny soldiers to a feast in the first place. Maybe they were levies recruited from villages along the way.

  Only three men were ahorse, some portly, cloaked blokes with spangenhelms. Those were most likely the lords. Some swordsmen and standard-bearers in the middle ranks were wearing brigandines or coats of plate, sauntering under conical helms of all shapes and sizes, but most of the footmen had leather caps with no armor at all, and their spears were less straight than slug trails. Part of Bob was jealous of Spywater; it’d be a lark to defend this castle against this bunch. But Spywater was alone, and they both knew these weren’t the only guests that would be arriving for the feast.

  The footfalls of the approachers were loud as ever now. Bob began to walk away from the gate. He recognized Lord Highcross upon his white stallion. He was the first to eye Bob and slant his head.

  “Do I need to blow my trumpet again?” Lord Highcross wore a white cloak over a black hauberk. The trumpet was a brazen spiral in his hand. “Open the damn gate! We’ve come to feast.”

  “Look, milord!” a footman yipped. “The banner of Lord Spywater still flies here!”

  All eyes in the box formation beheld the white unicorn on a field of blue. “Hey!” Saliva flew from Lord Highcross’ mouth. “What kind of welcome is this? Why isn’t the gate open? Do you know who we are?”

  A spiteful snicker escaped Bob’s lips as he donned his dick-helm. He said nothing and kept on past the black and white lord, budging footmen aside. The other lords scowled.

  “Is that The Sundown Boar?” a lad queried. “I swear that’s his dick-helm!”

  Lord Archester squeaked, “What the fuck is this?”

  Everyone had their heads turned away from the castle to watch Bob strut towards the village. A cannyn blast sounded a moment after several men suddenly scooped away. Like a sickle cutting hay, a mysterious black object pummelled men aside. Men went rolling and flipping to the ground like hafts without hands to hold them. A quarrel sang a quiet song of precision before it entered a footman’s brain. The lords on their horses spun frantically to eye the castle battlements and assess the threats, their worried faces gleaming under noseguards. A command was about to be hollered, but a giant explosion sent the castle gate blowing apart into splinters and all heads ducked. With the havoc of wood flying across the road, a dozen silent small black balls whizzed through the dust, shattering legs and toppling tens of men. Lord Highcross watched the head of his horse disappear. He fell back out of his saddle, cussing loudly.

  Lord Hickens pointed a saber at the shattered gate. “The fucking traitors blew open their own fucking gate! Charge, men! Into the castle! CUT THOSE FUCKERS TO THE GROUND!”

  The box of rattled men quickly morphed into a roaring charge. Even the dying scrounged at an attempt to follow, raising their eyes to see the horsemen lead the way. The heavy horseshoes decisively avoided the chunks of wood scattered about the gateway. Lord Archester entered the bailey just in time to see the front doors of the keep slam shut. He veered his horse to make a wide circuit around the bailey, cautiously eyeing all the ramparts and turrets. Behind him, the horde of footmen clambered over the shattered gate. All eyes and shields were high, expecting to espy archers.

  “Form before the keep!” Lord Archester flourished his saber and spurred to a gallop. “If our enemies hide like cravens, we’ll blow our way in!”

  Lord Hickens rode his black stallion up onto the ramparts. He was obsessed with trying to find the cannyn operators. For there to be no cannyns was torment for his mind. He mumbled, “Where the fuck are the cannyns? The archers? This doesn’t make sense!” He eyed the stone all around him and reined his stallion to a trot. Continuing down the top of the front bulwark, he peered into the bailey below.

  Lord Highcross was leading the footmen to the keep where Lord Archester was already dismounting. “Form the viper!” Lord Highcross called. He snickered and added, “Archester’s using his black bricks.”

  Nearly a hundred men thronging before the keep hollered to coordinate a shield wall. After a moment of loud shuffling, their formation had the shape of a chevron with the mouth facing the keep doors. Lord Archester retrieved some black bricks from a saddlebag and ran out to toss them. After they thudded against the doors, he ran back to the cover of a shield by his horse.

  Upon the front bulwark, Lord Hickens reined his horse to a stop. He was right above the busted gate, pondering in confusion. He turned his head to eye the keep. Long blue banners hung high on either side of the keep doors; Hickens watched them suddenly burst into flames. His stallion whickered when he stood in his stirrups to scream, “Behind the banners! The fucking banners!”

  The chevron formation before the keep lurched like a single being. It was a colossal worm springing away from danger. The banners were gone, replaced by two huge hissing waterfalls of boiling oil. The twin pillars of death squealed a dure lamentation when they hit the cold ground. Waves and waves of sticky blackness snatched the legs of men. Lord Archester’s black bricks exploded under the wet heat. It was a yellow and red blast with more force than a hundred cannyns. The keep doors imploded and fire went rushing across the oil in all directions. Thirty men went roaring up in flames within an instant, dropping all arms to show the almighty the dance of death and fire. The ones who managed to stay dry staggered to reform the viper and watch their fellowmen die. All those blackening bodies let out a crackling dirge, wafting up smoke to taint the firmament.

  Lord Archester stifled a curse as he watched his horse fly higher than it had ever flown before. A man beside him yipped when a quarrel caught him in the neck. The man turned slowly to face his lord, guilt raping his countenance. After Lord Archester nodded, the poor man ripped the arrow from his neck and nearly lost consciousness as he sprang forward. Holding his shield high, he ran through the burning oil, over the shattered doors and into the keep. Lord Archester watched him disappear behind the flames.

  “Stay behind the shields!” Lord Highcross had thrown off his white cloak. “Archers, form second rank!” His opaque black hauberk was blacker than the soot spreading alongside the keep. “All back twenty paces!” He was one of the lucky seventy-odd men who had avoided the touch of fire, albeit he could still feel the heat. With a greatsword in two hands, he crouched behind some pavises. His voice rang over the cries of burning bodies. “Hold! We’ll wait until the flames die!”

  A quarrel shattered through a pavise and skittered at Lord Archester’s feet. He kicked it away, grumbling, “Fuck all hell, there must be at least twenty archers in there.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN: THE VIPER

  THE SUN HAD moved part way across the sky by the time the oil stopped burning. It was the most painful things Lord Highcross ever had to sit through. Black remnants of dead fellowmen cracked and snapped under the slow but progressive shifting of a massive shield wall. The chevron formation encroached the soot-stained entrance inch by inch. The viper’s mouth opened just enough to let its tongue slither into the keep. The tongue was a file of shieldmen, underpinned by two outstretched spears. With its three lords dispersed at the rear of the head, the snake hissed, releasing a ceaseless stream of venom to clear every chamber, to sweep every artery until all life was quelled within.

  Hickens roared, “Every vein should feel the chill of the viper’s bite! Breach every hall at once!”

  The warm venom flowed over the cold stone and into the keep. One spearman awed at a gilt tapestry on the wall of the knights’ hall. The men fore and aft of him were snatching leftovers from the long table as they progressed. One shieldman stopped and put his shortsword on the table to snatch a hunk of meat. Before the greasy hunk could reach his mouth, the tapestry behind him brushed away as if by a giant hand. An oaken log covered in steel spikes swung out of the wall and threw four men over the table. The greasy hunk of meat spun through the air long enough for a fly to land on it twice.

  All eyes in the knights’ hall turned to see the bloody spiked log, and at that moment shrieks resounded from other parts of the ke
ep. The flowing venom was held back as if by a wind. A dozen traps had been triggered at once. The viper’s tongue was sliced into strips. Confusion unleashed its death grip on the intruders, casting horror across a throng of faces.

  Hickens came into the knights’ hall just in time to watch the gilt tapestry slide back into place. A man was lying on the table holding a gushing wound at his stomach. “Don’t falter, men!” Hickens pointed his sword forward as he barged past some gawkers. “Onward! Keep moving! We are the viper’s venom. Don’t stop!” All eyes turned from the table to follow the bloodthirsty lord.

  The lords Archester and Highcross entered the hall behind steady shields, just in time to see the serpent’s tongue resume its slither. The archers at their rear were staring at all corners of the ceiling, praying a trap wouldn’t snag them next. Hickens led tens of men onward past oaken doors and into the throne room.

  It seemed the venom had separated only to puddle up again. More and more men came into the throne room from different archways, coalescing with Hickens’ formation to gape at the gruesome sight upon the throne. Lady Spywater was a slowly deflating mass. A mud-like waste had gathered beneath her.

  “What madness has taken over this place?” Archester groaned. “Have the holders of this castle lost their minds?” The men around him wondered the same. “Is this Spywater’s doing?”

  “So many of us have died, but we have yet to see a single foe,” Highcross remonstrated. “I bet there’s nothing but more traps and boiling oil ahead. We need to turn back and plan a different strategy. Whoever holds this castle took advantage of our rage. They lured us in here. We can’t afford to walk into any more of their traps.”