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

by R. J. Eveland

  His priestly servants nearly tripped in their haste to thrust the lit censer at him. Dolshire snatched it with a glower and examined the smoke wafting from the breath holes. Sated, he swung it back and forth and hummed some dirge of sacrifice as he entered the keep of the tabernacle. Inside, his zealous voice sent prayers rising to tackle the clouds. Outside, his prayers were muffled by all the music yonder. His priestly servants shrugged at each other and left the tabernacle to join the celebration.

  By the golden litter, the ruckus was louder than war. Lady Lossex had talked Bob into dancing. They twirled wildly outside the orle of dancers. Behind them, Foulmouth’s nether parts flapped about chaotically as he spun and swirled, cackling, clashing those giant cymbals together. The green lord stopped for a moment to cough up blood, then continued his jovial twirling, grinning at his amused audience with those vile teeth. He turned to some giggling strumpets and beckoned them closer as he danced. They covered their grins with sweaty hands and pranced forth to enter the grip of his wrinkly arms.

  With blushing wenches hugging him on either side, Foulmouth wobbled towards the pavilion in a drunken trance. Slowly, the pavilion came closer until its mouth swallowed him whole. Dolshire’s priestly servants came around the litter just in time to watch the naked, green lord enter the pavilion with paramours stroking him off. Reciting old scriptures, the startled servants were suddenly reluctant to join the fun. They left awkwardly as minstrels mocked their expressions.

  Foulmouth fumbled with a string to shut the flaps behind him. Then, all his weight dropped. He collapsed into a different world. Inside, all was a blurry mess of color. Sunlight meekly seeped through the canvas ceiling, illuminating the multihued furs and silks. It all turned to blackness when the lovers shut their eyes. Flesh sprayed forth—exploding froth and flapping wetness. Sprawling, floundering, was a mess of twitching limbs, a heap of skin vibrating, losing itself in pleasure, forgetting the pains of the world.

  Outside, the lords Highcross and Lafender stepped out from under the canopy to grimace at the pavilion and cuss. The noises from within disgusted them. All eyes by the golden litter looked over to laugh, still strumming and clapping and stomping to the flutes and lutes. It was hard for Highcross not to laugh as well. But Lafender just pointed to the sky and yelled, “What the fuck is that?”

  The music cranked to a halt and all eyes raised towards the castle. Atop the keep, the arm of a small mangonel was licking the sky, warping the shape of the horizon. That ghastly sight sent a chill up the dancers’ backs. It would’ve petrified them, but something flying through the air made them rout like a gaggle of sots on a sinking ship.

  Two large linked balls of steel fell from the sky and crashed into the pavilion. The structure toppled instantly, flattening and billowing like a dress in the wind. Figures stirred beneath it, creating moving pillars of canvas. They lashed frantically, tugging at an attempt to free themselves. A squelching, menacing voice rang out from under it. The floundering canvas was altogether a bedraggled monster and Foulmouth was its voice. Two support beams were somehow sticking up on either side of the pavilion. Those could’ve been the monster’s arms as it bellowed, “Has someone fucking pranked me? Do we need to build a gibbet? Help me out of here!”

  Encircling cackles grew stronger as footmen came from the spits to see what was amiss. All they saw was a floundering monster of canvas. It roared, “Who’s done this! This isn’t funny!” When Foulmouth suddenly wriggled out from under the thing, all laughing stopped forthwith. All eyes appeared guilty before the raging, naked lord. “Who’s done this? Who’s toppled my pavilion?”

  A troupe of fingers thrust at the castle. The mangonel arm up high said everything. Foulmouth suddenly turned and clambered onto his pavilion. He began to scrounge and search through folds of canvas. The ring of watchers stepped closer, waiting to see what he would find. When he held up the linked balls of steel, everyone shuddered in horror.

  Foulmouth was holding the heads of his two favorite sons, Carl and Karl. The twins’ giant, stout faces were still in their helms, their tongues sewn together.

  The green lord fell forth to lodge his naked knees in the ground. Holding a helm in each hand, he stared into his sons’ unblinking eyes. He saw horror in them, a horror similar to the pain in his eyes. The silent watchers were a throng of sympathetic faces wishing their hopes of an easy victory farewell. They watched the naked lord cry, but no pout escaped his lips. His face was unmoving as the lonesome tear dripped from his eyelash.

  A chuckle from Bob was the only sound.

  Everyone ignored it as the naked lord tilted his head back. In the corner of his eye, he could see that hideous arm, that oversized thibble that had chucked the heads of his sons at him. He closed his eyes just as Bob chuckled again. In his mind, Foulmouth swore it was Spywater that was laughing at him.

  Lord Dolshire came around the litter just in time to watch Foulmouth kick his sons’ heads away. The heads rolled towards the road, causing minstrels to leap aside. With his fist shaking in the air, the naked lord went wobbling forth in a hurry towards the castle, his buttocks jiggling like a sodden cloak at his heels. The throng of watchers followed. The lords Highcross and Lafender had to demand everyone to stay back when they reached the gateway. From there, they watched the drunken lord stagger alone across the bailey, throwing his tousled gut in every direction as he limped.

  With one eye open and a scowl across his face, Foulmouth stopped in the middle of the bailey to shake his fist at the keep. He yelled, “You’re a fucking craven, Spywater!” The keep glared back at him with its many eyes. Unlike the watchers by the gate, those eyes didn’t intimidate the green lord. “Do you know who you’re dealing with, cur? I’ll have you know this castle is now under siege by Lord Foulmouth. Yup. That’s me! Uhuh. You scared now, Spywater?” Foulmouth started pissing. He snatched his dick and pointed it at the keep. “This is what I think of you, sonny boy. In a fortnight from now, I’ll have enough black powder to blow your whole castle to a billion miserable pieces. Your castle and your name will become forgotten ruins of shit! Prepare to die, Spywater. These are your last days.”

  “Come back here, dear!” One of Foulmouth’s paramours in the gateway was worriedly beckoning her lord to come back to safety. “He’ll shoot a quarrel at you!”

  Foulmouth’s bare feet shuffled in the sunlit dirt to face the gateway. He aimed his last few squirts of neon piss at his worried paramour. The vivid streams went four feet through the air and thumped the dirt in gobs. “Shut up, woman! I’m coming. Calm your ponies, bitch.” He started back just as a quarrel skimmed the top of his head and thumped the ground in front of him. The quarrel kicked up a spurt of dirt that coated his legs as he passed it. He kept a proud gait with his chin high, grinning at all his worried watchers.

  “Hurry!” the paramour hollered.

  Lafender ordered a shieldman to rush out and cover the naked lord. The shieldman beelined across the bailey as a second quarrel kicked up dirt by Foulmouth’s feet. The naked lord stepped over it with a swagger. The shieldman dove just in time to stop a third quarrel that would’ve otherwise hit Foulmouth in the back.

  “Hurry! Hurry!” The paramour couldn’t bear the sight. She watched two more quarrels thud against the shield before her lover was within reach.

  Foulmouth pushed her away as he budged through the throng. “Where’s Pasteel? I want Pasteel!”

  A lanky man with a feather in his cap took one long step and he was in front of the naked lord. “Here I am, milord!” He bowed, removing his cap for a moment.

  The mass of gawkers followed as Foulmouth put an arm around Pasteel and continued down the road towards the camp. Foulmouth said calmly, “Take a horse and return to my castle.” He slid off a ring and slapped it in Pasteel’s palm. “Give this to my castellan as proof of my word. Tell him I want all my knights and all my black powder at Castle Spywater within a fortnight from now. Tell him that if he isn’t here in the timeframe I’ve demanded, I’ll remove
him as castellan and have him scrubbing pots in a dress. Did you get that?”

  Pasteel bobbed his head. “I can do that, milord.” He slipped the ring on his own finger and held to the sunlight. “You can always count on Pasteel.”

  Suddenly, Lord Dolshire stepped out to block Foulmouth’s path. “Wait,” he accosted, “Foulmouth, listen. Before you do this, let me talk to Spywater. I may be able to …”

  The two lords budged shoulders. Foulmouth snickered as he passed. “Talk to him all you want, priest. No one’s stopping you.”

  Lord Dolshire, with his tonsure glowing like a nimbus in the sun, glowered and stood still to watch the mass of people pass him. Somehow, he felt separated from them all. It may have been because he was the only one standing still, but he studied all those minstrels and servants, all those soldiers and strumpets walking away and truly believed they were nothing like him. He raised his chin back towards the castle and picked up his feet.

  “Should I come with you, milord?” A priestly servant stopped Dolshire to query, concern raping his cute face.

  Dolshire turned to him, casting clear and sober eyes. “Pray, child. Go back to the tabernacle and pray for Lord Spywater. Pray for the almighty to guide my words. Pray, child. Pray I can end this siege without further bloodshed!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE LION

  THE EARLY EVENING sun turned the dull fields of grass into luscious golden seas. Phillick and Prestings emerged from a dark forest to behold the bright vastness of the field ahead. Even their horses raised widened eyes to espy it with wonder. Wind rolled down the vale towards them, creating visible waves in the grass, waves that looked all too similar to the waves of a stormy ocean. Dense forest encroached on either side of the vale, going on and on for leagues. At the far end of the vale, blurry in their eyes sat a tall grassy hill. Upon the hill lived a massive pointy menhir. The menhir was puncturing a lonely, white cloud, a cloud much lower than the few others floating way above it. The top of the menhir shot out of the fluffy whiteness like the snout of a dragyn, beckoning the distant riders to come.

  “Aha, Phillick, now that’s a sight for a gleeman’s tale.” Prestings spurred his horse to a full gallop towards the menhir, creating a messy trail in the grass that marked his course.

  “I bet I can beat you there!” Phillick spurred his horse to a gallop as well, creating a trail of his own.

  Prestings laughed as the wind rushed through his helm. “I’ll bet you one shinning, Phillick!”

  The forest they had emerged from sat back in amusement to watch the two trails wend across the vale. Birds in the encroaching forests turned their little heads as the riders passed. Clouds of dead grass stirred in the air behind the stomping hooves. Critters under the grass squeaked and scurried to their holes as the thundering neared. Powerful legs glided overhead. A scared bunny sat petrified, wiggling its nose. Ugly vultures way up high squealed and screeched, soaring over the valley just as Phillick passed Prestings. The riders were halfway to the menhir now.

  The lonely white cloud still looked like a disk around the massive pillar, although it was slowly fluttering away. A bear stood up in the forest to watch the hurried riders gallop by. It would’ve growled if the smell of honey wasn’t there to take its attention away.

  “Oh, I’ll catch you!” Prestings dug his spurs in deep, watching Phillick gain ground.

  The messy trails left by their horses were now two long streaks. Phillick’s was one straight long line while Prestings’ was slightly curvy. Prestings noticed as much when he looked over his shoulder to see the forest they had come from. He tried to steer his horse onto a straighter course. Now, Prestings was the one gaining ground. He watched the rump of Phillick’s horse draw nearer.

  It wasn’t drawing near enough. When a steel hand came out to touch it, it moved further away. The hill would be under them any moment and Phillick was leading by more than a second. The weasel looked back, a mocking rictus hidden under his hawk-faced helm. His horse’s hooves reached the butt of the hill and began galloped up the slope, with Prestings right at his rear. The two beasts vied to reach the top first.

  A hidden hole under the grass saw the whole of a hoof.

  Phillick’s beast was only hindered by it for a split second, but that was all the time Prestings needed to scream past in a blur and slap the menhir with a steel hand.

  With his horse rearing back from the sudden stop, Prestings hollered, “Hurrah! Now I only owe you nineteen shinnings, Phillick!”

  Phillick half-chuckled, half-cursed as he trotted up to the menhir. He slapped it anyways, showing the world he was still second place. One close glance and he spotted the carved arrow up high. Like the others before, the arrow was brighter in color than the weathered surface around it, proving it had been carved somewhat recently.

  “This menhir is by far the largest we’ve seen,” Phillick observed.

  Prestings agreed, trotting around the structure. The single cloud that had capped it was off higher in the sky now, heading onward to mingle with its ilk. “This menhir looks older than the others, too. Look how weathered the stone is.”

  The visor of an armet raised, allowing two weasel eyes to peer off into the distance. “The arrow’s pointing that way. But I can’t see any menhir over there. It may be leagues away.”

  “Another thick forest to traverse.” Prestings’ head shook wryly. “I feared this would happen again. Medgard will reach Wellimgale before we find out where these bloody arrows lead. They could be taking us around the world in a giant loop, and we won’t know it till we reach the road again, old and ready to retire.”

  “Don’t be so doubtful.” Phillick pointed at the center of the large forest that awaited them. “I see a clearing in the woods there, a glade of some sort. Perhaps that’s where our next menhir lies, or even the end to this amusing game. Let’s start right away.”

  Prestings watched Phillick head down the other side of the hill towards the forest. The forest stretched on for as far as the eye could see. “Alright,” the knight in the sallet groaned, “but this is the last one. If this menhir points into the horizon like the others, I’m turning back. I’m not putting more distance betwixt us and Wellimgale, not when there’s a rebel prince to be slain.”

  No response came from the slim knight riding away in a hurry. Prestings was forced to follow at full speed. The forest swallowed them with a hundred barky lips, a thousand rough tongues bringing them in deeper. The sun disappeared, replaced by a cooling shade. Low branches and twigs cracked into splinters and bits against hocks. Leaves smacked and brushed across visors as the beasts struggled against the brush. Hooves ripped moss from soggy stumps in clumps, and rocks that had sat undisturbed for centuries were kicked out of place like kings.

  Greenery had rushed around them in a blurry haze. The forest unveiled itself completely, showed its soul to them. But with the speed at which they flew, all they could do was glimpse each thing fortuitously. A family of deer lifted skittish eyes, frozen in terror as the riders stormed by. A vixen pronked out of a hoary dracaena, baring pearly teeth. The passing knights paid it no mind. A black and brown adder was hanging from a bough up ahead. Prestings paid mind at that. It hissed with sharp fangs as Phillick’s helm passed underneath. Prestings completely avoided the thing, riding out in a long arc before connecting to Phillick’s tail again.

  With a profluent alacrity, they carried on, twigs and sprigs snapping underhoof. A swarm of kingfishers kicked up from a crown at their left, then a bevy of finches from a bush at their right, together creating a kaleidoscopic typhoon of wings, a harrying cyclone that rose with a grand display. Awes escaped the knights’ helms as they listened to the fluttering and chirping. They strained their necks to watch as their horses took them away. The flapping colors seeped through cracks in the canopy, to blemish the immaculate sky above.

  An hour of egressing the forest felt like a stroll through a grove. The forest suddenly opened up into a narrow valley, a glen similar to the previous valley
. This time, the menhir wasn’t on a hill; it was low in the center of the glen, surrounded by tall, waving grass. At the end of the glen where all seemed blurry to the eye, a massive escarpment reached skyward.

  From where their horses freed into the openness, the knights gazed over the distant menhir and down further to where the black mouth of a cave sat on the faraway escarpment. The mouth of the cave capped the top of the menhir, just like the lonely cloud had done to the previous one. Still, even with the menhir spearing the cave, playing a trick on the knights’ eyes, it all looked a world away.

  “Huzzah!” Phillick reined his horse to a stop and raised his visor, espying the grand sight with glee.

  “You see that cave, way on the other side?” Prestings pointed. “I sure hope that’s where the arrow’s pointing. Almighty, let this be the end of our game.”

  “We’ll have to check the cave out either way.” Phillick was already off again, forcing Prestings to follow. “This menhir seems to have a small building beside it. I wonder what it is. I think I see some cairns as well, or are those just big bumpy rocks?”

  A steel hand blocked the sun and Prestings strained to see. “I think those are cairns, but they’re too far away to tell. That building, though, it looks near as ancient as the menhir, a bunch of stacked stones with a round grass roof. I’ve seen structures like that before in my nuncle’s sketches, if I’m seeing it right. They’re called dolmens.” He had to speak louder as Phillick picked up the pace, streaming down the glen towards the megalith. “I think they’re also called passage tombs or something of the like. My nuncle was fascinated by them. He claimed they were built by celestial visitors or masters of the stars that taught the druids their ways. But my nuncle was also a nut.”