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

by R. J. Eveland

  The giants rushed forth. Tapestries on the walls shook with their fury. Spywater leaped clear of a cut, dodged a thrust, and spun through the air. He clapped his blade against Karl’s helm before he landed, then twirled clear of a chop and clacked his blade against Carl’s vambrace. The giants swung and chopped together, missing as Spywater mocked them with harrying blows. Dents appeared and grunts kicked up. Spywater feigned a retreat and jumped back through the air to smack his sword as hard as he could against Karl’s brow. Tap! It created a dent that looked like a mouth. Beyond irritated, Karl dashed headlong at an attempt to tackle the blue lord. Spywater rolled aside and Karl went tumbling forward, his limbs flailing to gather in a heap on the floor.

  During the din of Karl’s crash, Spywater rolled around Carl. With a quick sidecut as he came up out of the roll, Spywater’s sword tapped hard against the back of Carl’s leg.

  Karl strained to get himself afoot and shook his head at his twin’s sad performance. Carl was an elephant being harassed by a mouse, stomping around and swinging his trunk wildly. Spywater rolled and dodged a downcut before he leaped to punch Carl’s visor with a scaled fist. Carl staggered back and Karl took his place with a furious swing. Spywater ducked and Karl’s flashing blade went right over his head. While Karl worked the weight of his sword around for a remise, Spywater’s blade ran up his armpit and rebounded off of ribs. The blue lord rolled away, blood flicking off his sword. Karl fell to a knee and swung haphazardly, knowing he would miss.

  Spywater rose to his feet out of sword’s reach and stretched his back with a satisfied sigh.

  Carl had never wished he could scream more. He saw the blood leaking from his kneeling twin’s armpit and it made him thrust out his shoulders in rage. Under his helm, his mouth was open, imitating a warcry, tongue flapping and all, but no sound was made. Not being able to scream as he charged was more tormenting than the pang in his groin.

  With the power of a dragyn’s arm, Carl’s gleaming longsword sang a shrill song through the air. It was a flying silver snake that hissed louder than any warcry Spywater had ever heard. Fascinated by the sound, Spywater almost let it hit him. The silver snake only stopped its song for a moment. Its weight came rounding back, sending another shrill squeal through the air. Time seemed to slow as Spywater watched it flash towards him. After altering the angle of his stance, he felt the heat of the flash pass his side again. At that moment, his own sword came down hard on Carl’s sword-hand, causing sparks to erupt.

  Carl staggered back to observe his gauntlet. Several scales had flown off and the linen beneath was reddening. His thumb was broken. He moved the sword to his off-hand and practiced a flourish before he helped his brother rise. Now standing unsteadily, both twins slightly rocked back and forth, their powerful lungs fetching much-needed breath. They gave each other one last brotherly glare, then split apart to slowly move around the blue lord, spreading to either side of him.

  Spywater kept his stance but swung his head to keep an eye on both giants as they circled him. He wondered what taunts they would spill if they could speak. He decided to give them one last warning. “All your sorrow will vanish if you stay,” he admonished, his voice filling the hall with echoes. “Leave this castle and your sorrow will continue. Stay, and the next blow I deal you will end it forever. This is a warning for you both.”

  The warning was slapped aside as a jest, blind words that meant naught. Spywater could guess as much from the raspy breathing that continued to circle him. Each time he turned, they were a little closer. Finally, he turned and his parry was precise. He sent Carl’s blade away just in time to spin and catch Karl’s. He sent that one up and over right before he went for a long arcing cut towards Carl. Carl’s blade rose to parry, but the cut had been a feint.

  The blue lord caprioled with a one-handed thrust. His sword grinded through the sights of Carl’s visor, expanding it, and made a horrible scraping noise before it whirled back out, a quarter of its length imbrued.

  Spywater parried two vengeful cuts from Karl before Carl hit the floor. Seeing his twin dead, Karl’s mind became lost. Pure instinct and rage were now holding his sword. The thing flashed brighter than flames, slashing and slicing, glancing off of Spywater’s parries, tossing sparks in the air, casting shadows on the floor, altogether clattering up an orchestra of steel. To hear the boom of Karl’s heart as he fought would’ve added the perfect beat to the tune.

  As Spywater rebutted and blocked each attack with deft calculation, he whispered something, something so quiet even the louse in his helm didn’t hear it. “If the-man-who-doesn’t-think lacks experience, he may find himself facing both the wild beast and the-man-who-thinks at the same time.”

  Spywater kept backing away, accepting each attack as they came. Agony began to nestle in his arms. Some blows were so forceful, they sent outright jolts coursing through his bones. Still, he parried them with patience, waiting. His eyes were wary of the direction of Karl’s sword, watching which way the edge faced during each cut. The moment he was waiting for came. Karl’s sword swooped in such an angle, allowing Spywater to place his on top with perfect friction. The two swords came down together as one. Spywater used Karl’s own strength to send the blades twirling in a great loop. Karl’s sword hit the ceiling before it jounced along the floor.

  Bewildered, Karl glowered at his empty gauntlet. He forthwith fell headlong, losing himself in a mindless charge of madness. Spywater jumped so high that Karl flew right under him. He jumped over the giant like anyone would jump over a fence. Karl slammed the ground, his breastplate scraping across the stone. He tried to get up but he wasn’t fast enough. Spywater latched onto his back like a peregrine. With a howl of rapture, the blue lord drove his blade betwixt gorget and helm, puncturing a maille pisane with a loud, metallic pop. Spywater’s sword freed a thousand veins, allowing an eruption of blood to splurge upward when he yanked it back out. Karl was a fountain until the rain came down all around him, sputtering and splattering across his backplate.

  A whisper escaped the victor’s helm. “Time to send Foulmouth a message.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE WEASEL

  THE RUGGED ROAD cut through the sunny country like a furrow, wending around hills, over rills, and through vast seas of gleaming grass. The soft strums of a citole were passing a swath of ancient menhirs on the roadside. The citole was part of a train, a noisy train of squeaking wheels, clopping hooves and quiet voices. For animals burrowed nearby, the passing din mingled with the music of a hidden pond: croaking frogs and crickets, mating birds and splashing fish.

  Most of Spywater’s knights were half-dozing in their saddles with lorn hunches in their backs. The servantry from Castle Spywater followed along, a little more cheerful than the knights. Most of the servants had never seen a city before. The citole strums were coming from a bald man lying in a wain. A woman walking beside him sang tenderly.

  The knights had japed earlier, saying that Jax was their one-man vanguard. The man rode solo way up ahead, wide awake staring off in all directions like an owl in a forest fire. Medgard and his cronies Phillick the Weasel and Prestings the Lion rode abreast several ranks ahead of the baggage wains. The music behind them was loud and nice enough to keep a man from talking too much.

  But Phillick always found something to say. “I miss Jisus,” he complained through his armet. “I wish he didn’t have to die. All the man wanted was an adventure. Knowing he died makes leaving Spywater behind even more burdening for my heart. Jisus died for a cause we’ve already abandoned.”

  “It’s not our fault he got himself killed.” Even though he knew it was stupid during times of war, Medgard rode without his bascinet on. It was just too damn hot, is how he put it. His dark slick hair was stuck to the side of his head in strands, begging for a rinse. “Jisus chose to come with us.”

  “I’ll never forget him.” Phillick sighed sadly, then a whit of hope sprinkled across his helm. “I wonder if Spywater’s still alive. I doubt there really was a feast plan
ned. Redmand was probably talking out of his arse. And I bet that man who claimed to be Montese was bluffing, too. There’s no way Black Blade would betray King Kilwinning. They work so well together.”

  “We can’t say anything for certain,” Medgard opined. “All we can do is tell Kilwinning our story when we reach Wellimgale. He’ll understand. No king would want valuable knights to die for some shitty castle in the middle of nowhere. Spywater wanted to be escorted back to his castle and he decided to stay. Therefore, our job’s done. Perhaps this whole war’s done. There’s a good chance The False Prince has been vanquished by now.”

  Prestings, with the visor of his sallet raised, said, “I don’t know for certain but I bet Phillick’s right. I don’t think King Spiderwell was smart enough to hide behind the mountains and rise from the dead like that. I think Spywater’s just paranoid. But I do agree with Jax about one thing: this entire mission was a waste of time. No matter who’s right, we should all be at Kilwinning’s side planning the next attack. This war isn’t over until we know for certain The False Prince is dead.”

  “What if Black Blade is strangling the little prince as we speak?” Phillick suggested. “I’d celebrate to that.”

  Medgard let out a sad laugh. “You’d fuck Black Blade. Wouldn’t you, Phillick?”

  Phillick’s laugh sounded forced and unreal. “I’d shake his hand, maybe. He used to be a knight like us, but now he’s lost. He’s death in physical form, walking blackness. I believe the stories aren’t true, but part of me wouldn’t be surprised if they are. If Lord Montese really did learn our king’s secrets, do you think Black Blade would shend himself by making his involvement known? I bet Black Blade would rather keep it a secret because he loves being a hero so much. Everyone sees him as one, at least the people he fights to protect. Being a hero is the only thing a man like that has left. I reckon he would do almost anything to keep that title healthy. In a way, that’s what makes him who he is.”

  Medgard was clearly offended by that. His greasy hair moved for the first time as he lurched. “You’d love Black Blade even if he did spiel Kilwinning’s plans to the enemy?”

  Phillick shook his head. “But I’d still understand why he did it. He would’ve had to go through a lot of torture for any of this to be true, though. If that really was Montese at the church, he probably fabricated this whole story with Redmand because he was too embarrassed to admit he let Black Blade escape with nothing to show for it.”

  “That’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” a knight ahead of them put in. “Black Blade always escapes.”

  “Talking about all this now is pointless.” Prestings yawned. “We can talk about it with the king. I’m sure Jax will bring it up immediately when we get to Wellimgale.”

  “Jax.” Phillick echoed the name as if it were a mysterious rune. “I think those bells muddled his head up.”

  Medgard took a swallow from a skin and let it hang back at his side. After wiping his mouth, he said, “I thought we all agreed to never talk about those bells again. That shit fucked my head up, too. Quit bringing it up, Phillick.”

  “Agreed,” Prestings seconded.

  Phillick couldn’t agree. He wished Jisus was still there so he could talk about ghosts with someone. “I’ll try not to bring it up again, but I won’t promise. I don’t think it’s healthy to forget stuff like …”

  “Shut it, Phillick,” Medgard spat. “Ghosts don’t exist! Okay? Just let us be ignorant in peace. I’m happy this way.”

  Prestings laughed and that was enough to give Phillick the satisfaction he needed to let silence fill in for a while. Of course, something else arose to make the weasel think with its mouth again. There was a carving on one of the menhirs along the side of the road. It was a carving of an arrow. He pointed at it as they passed. “Look, someone carved an arrow onto that menhir.”

  “Damn vandals,” one of Spywater’s knights complained. “Those rocks have been here longer than any castle. They should be treated with respect, whatever they are.”

  Prestings enlightened, “They were erected by druids in ancient days.”

  “I heard female giants used them as pleasure rods,” Medgard quipped.

  As their horses took them past the next menhir, Phillick pointed again, fascinated. “Look, that one has an arrow, too. I think it’s pointing to the menhir way over on that brae. You see it?”

  The distant, lonely menhir up high was impossible not to see, as it thrust its giant mass into the horizon, surrounded by weaving, writhing grass. Medgard and Prestings watched with amusement as Phillick reined his horse off the road. He spurred faster over the field and galloped up the slope towards the menhir.

  “Does that one have an arrow, too?” Prestings yelled, watching Phillick rein to a stop upon the distant brae.

  Phillick studied the menhir, then came galloping back down the field towards the road. Excitedly, he veered in to ride with his chums again. “Yes, that one has an arrow pointing way over to another menhir across a vale. It’s a good gallop away from here. I’d lose sight of the road if I went.”

  “Are you thinking of following them? The arrows?” Medgard tried to hide the excitement in his voice but he still sounded like a curious little boy. He secretly loved games, and following arrows to somewhere unknown was an intriguing game if anything.

  “I don’t know,” Phillick mused. “I wouldn’t do it alone.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Prestings loved games, too, and unlike Medgard he wasn’t afraid to admit it. “I’m curious to know where they’ll take us. Maybe there’s a hidden city of elves!”

  A great laugh flew up from Phillick. “Now you’re thinking, Prestings. Let’s do it.”

  Medgard said, “Better grab some food and water from the wains before you go.”

  “What?” Prestings raised a brow at Medgard. “You’re not coming with us?”

  “I don’t play games.” Medgard raised his chin.

  “That’s fine,” Phillick cheered, already turning his horse. “We’ll catch up with you later, Medgard. Our horses are healthy enough for it.”

  Prestings just bobbed his head at Medgard and turned his horse to follow Phillick. Others nodded their farewells as the adventurous knights passed by. Listening to the citole up close, they filled their saddlebags with some odd provender.

  From the road a moment later, Medgard watched his cronies gallop up onto the brae. In his mind, Medgard called himself an idiot for not joining them. He called himself an idiot again for calling himself an idiot, and then tried to convince himself that they were the idiots for behaving like curious little children. For all he knew, they were riding off to get themselves killed. When he watched them ride out of sight, he finally decided that he was indeed the biggest idiot for letting them go. He whispered into the breeze, “Make it back safely, you bastards.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE: THE ANT

  STREWN ATHWART THE gateway of Castle Spywater was a half-finished gate. Ants were wielding the abandoned tools now, crawling over them in their search for food. One fortunate ant was dragging a pudgy maggot across the hilt of an ax.

  Down the road away from the castle, men and women were sitting about on stools in the afternoon sun, feasting on meat and wine. Not a single soul was still. All was flexing and swaying, tapping and clapping to the music Foulmouth’s minstrels played so well. An orle of dancers spun behind a grand golden litter. Foulmouth twirled in the middle of it, crashing giant cymbals together. His green silks were in a wrinkled pile by his feet. His hairy, limp breasts skimmed his beard as he kicked and danced and frolicked. Hickies were strewn across his thighs and stomach. In his guts were gouts of fish and pork and chicken, but filling him most was the dark purple drink being shared among all the jolly faces watching him dance.

  Several tents and one pavilion had already been raised under the sun. Bird shit spattered across the green and blue canvas of the pavilion, sprouting up laughter all around as one liveried servant hurried to clean it off.

 
The lords Dolshire and Lafender had arrived with their small retinues to join the celebrations. Lord Lafender had been amused by Bob’s retelling of the story, too drunk to care if they couldn’t feast in the keep just yet. He had laughed and jeered, saying he couldn’t wait to watch Carl and Karl strut from the battlements, each holding a half of Spywater’s head.

  Lord Dolshire, however, shared a much different opinion on the matter. He chose to unpack his chests far away from the golden litter.

  A jongleur was working away in one of Foulmouth’s tents, inspired by a handful of mushrooms to write a song called “The Ghost of Lord Spywater.” It was a satire. He too couldn’t wait for the laughable moment when they would all dance in the halls of the keep, assured in knowing another castle’s been taken for the good King Spiderwell. A tall woman with dark brown skin massaged his penis as he wrote, snuggled under furs and the wispy, curling smoke of incense.

  The lord in black maille was truly the black and white lord again as Lord Lafender had coincidentally packed a white cloak in one of his travel trunks. Highcross and Lafender were seated on stools under the canopy of the pavilion, watching Foulmouth gambol with his servants and minstrels. Music filled their ears. Roast filled their noses and women rubbed their backs. The thirty-odd footmen from their combined retinues were in clusters behind the pavilion, dancing and laughing out of sight, many of them waiting for the fresh meat Lafender’s archers had snagged along the way to finish cooking on spits.

  Over in the middle of a furrowed field, away from the affinity and lechery, gleamed the holy and righteous glare of Lord Dolshire. With his burnished tonsure shimmering in the sun, he had erected a white tabernacle to offer prayers to the almighty. His priestly servants were fumbling with hot coals in the tabernacle’s bailey, struggling to light a censer. Lord Dolshire was greatly aggrieved because he had hoped to discuss something portent with Montese. The state of affairs had outraged him, albeit he managed to restrain his righteous fervor. He would have left this ghastly place already if he didn’t believe it was his duty to help retake Castle Spywater from the cadaverous hands of his despicable enemies.