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

by R. J. Eveland

  Phillick suddenly lurched to a stop, causing his horse to rear and neigh.

  “What’s wrong?” Prestings loured through his visor, reining his horse to go slower.

  “I thought I saw something.” The menhir was still far enough to render blurry, but Phillick was known to have extraordinary sight. “I thought I saw a man walk into the dolmen, or whatever you call it.”

  “It could’ve been a deer.” Prestings hadn’t stopped. He passed Phillick at a canter, forcing the slim knight to spur and catch up.

  “Wait up.” Phillick’s cry was tense.

  Prestings just laughed. “I bet I can beat you there!” His laughing died away the moment he heard a ping against his helm. The strike had been hefty, and he looked back to see what it was.

  Phillick pointed at it. It was an iron-tipped arrow flipping through the air. Another one came over Prestings’ head and barely missed Phillick’s right spaulder.

  “Someone’s loosing arrows at us!” Phillick shrieked.

  Prestings adjusted his helm back into place. “You think I don’t know that?” Both knights spurred their horses to go faster. “We should hide in the dolmen for cover.”

  “You lummox!” Phillick barked. “That’s where the arrows are flying from!”

  Prestings cursed himself beneath his breath. A tall boulder surrounded by a thin copse was approaching on their left. As more arrows flew uncomfortably close, Prestings made his horse capriole towards the promising cover. That brief moment of height allowed him an insightful glance at the nearing menhir. The bumpy stones aforementioned weren’t cairns at all, but rather tents made of wolf pelts, and the dolmen with the grass roof was, in fact, a hovel with a roof of thatch. “Our eyes tricked us!” Prestings panicked. “Those aren’t cairns at all! Those are tents, Phillick! Have we gone blind?”

  Phillick felt an arrow shatter against his breastplate. Several small splinters managed to fly through the sights of his visor. Rocking from the blow, he gathered his mind and pointed onward. “We should veer for that thicket to our left. I see a rock large enough to cover our horses!”

  “What do you think I’m doing?” Prestings spurred again just as an arrow barely missed his horse’s rump.

  The thicket was a scraggly medley of gorse, blackberry bushes and buckthorn trees. The horses stalled behind the vine-riddled boulder. An arrow caromed off the top of the boulder and flipped through the air. No more arrows came after that.

  “We should be safe here for a time.” Phillick dismounted and began rooting through a saddlebag.

  “Enough time to give our horses water and gallop the fuck away from here.” Prestings quaffed back a bit of water, then dismounted to give his horse some with a helping hand.

  “Are you fucking kidding?” Phillick stopped rooting to withdraw his sling and a sack of pebbles. “I’m not turning back yet, Prestings. We came all the way here. This is the end, the place where the arrows have led us.”

  “Yeah.” Prestings agreed this was the end. “And there’s a fucking camp of bandits with real arrows.”

  “You think they’re bandits?” Phillick was already spinning a pebble over his head with the sling. “That’s all the more reason to kill them.”

  A sallet shook sullenly. “No, Phillick. We’re outnumbered. We need to turn back.”

  An armet slanted slightly and two spaulders shrugged. “We have warhorses and superior gear. Plus I got my sling!” Phillick set the pebble loose towards the camp, hoping it would reach but unable to see for sure.

  “What’re you doing?” Prestings grieved. “They could have horses, too!”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” is all Phillick said as he dashed headlong up the tall vine-laden rock that covered them. The luminous glen of golden grass opened up to him as he peered over the thicket. Over and beyond, the bandit camp sat huddled around the ancient menhir, tents clustered like barnacles on a garboard. Just as he swore he could see the archers, an arrow skimmed the top of his armet. The arrow had hit at a slight angle, but the single plume across the skull of his helm directed the arrow straight onwards, and Prestings watched it wobble overhead.

  Phillick was so startled that he lost balance and toppled back. He rolled down the vines and landed in some gorse. Chuckling, he rose to his feet, digging into his sack of pebbles with two eager fingers.

  Prestings swung up onto his saddle. “C’mon, Phillick, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  “No!” With a pebble in his sling, Phillick clambered up the rock again, gripping onto vines for leverage. “We haven’t seen what’s in the cave yet. I bet the bandits are hiding a trove! That’s why they’re trying to scare us off.”

  The spurs on Prestings sabatons were on the verge of digging in. “Listen to yourself, Phillick. You sound like a farm boy high off jams and pies. This isn’t some grand adventure, damn you! Those bandits probably carved the arrows in the menhirs themselves, hoping some idiots like us would follow them. They mean to plunder our pockets, Phillick. We need to leave! They could have this valley surrounded with horsemen.”

  Phillick finished climbing the rock. The sight of the camp brought an unexplainable excitement to his heart. “You’re the one who needs to listen to yourself, Prestings.” He snirtled and began twirling the pebble overhead. “You sound like a farm boy scared from a bedtime story. Have some faith, will you? This valley isn’t surrounded.” He counted three tents and one hovel. The menhir outstood them all immensely, towering into the sky like a castle spire. “They would need a much bigger camp to host all those imaginary men of yours, Prestings. I bet there’re less than ten of ‘em.”

  “Still.” Prestings felt the sweat of nervousness running down his brow. “Three would be too many. We need to leave.”

  The pebble in the sling let loose. Both knights heard it whistle away but only Phillick watched it soar. The camp was so far away, he couldn’t tell where the pebble landed, but he heard some kerfuffle. Distressed voices echoed from the camp, many voices. “Three would be boring,” Phillick declared. He then looked back at the steel-tipped lance Prestings had tucked away under his saddle’s girth strap. “We can harass them with charges. It’ll be fun, especially when you have that thing. You still remember how to use one?”

  “You mean this lance?” Prestings looked down at it like he hadn’t known it was there.

  Phillick took one last look at the camp and slid down the rock. “Yes, that lance. I bet you could obliterate those tents with it, knock them right to the ground. Imagine the yips those little bandits’ll make. It’ll be like slaughtering gnomes.”

  The sad sigh Prestings produced said he had had enough. “Okay, Phillick, you’ve gone completely mad. We need to turn back now. There’s no way I’m helping you slay a bunch of bandits.”

  With his sling tied around his wrist and the sack of pebbles secured at his hip, Phillick mounted. “Then I’ll just do it myself.” The slim knight in the armet spurred his horse onward around the rock.

  “You foolhardy cretin!” Prestings shook his gauntlet as he watched Phillick drift out of the thicket. The horse’s hooves kicked up bits of grass as it took the slim knight across the glen. Prestings trotted out from behind the rock to watch his crony gallop away. He yelled at him once more. “You’ll regret this, Phillick! What do you expect will happen? Fuck the almighty, you’re a dying fool!” With a sudden change of heart, Prestings quickly alighted to free his lance. “But I won’t let you die alone.” When the lance was almost free, he paused to close his eyes. “Or will I?”

  Phillick was long gone, feeling the impetuous wind seep into the niches of his armor, listening to it hiss through the slits and breaths of his helm. Grass rushed in amassment on either side of him, bleary rivers of gold and yellow.

  Ahead, the menhir towered over the meager camp. If it weren’t for the gargantuan escarpment in the distance, that massive spear of stone would’ve bifurcated the horizon. It was even taller than the last one and slightly slanted from its years and years
of sitting in the dirt against the wind.

  Through the visor that quaked with the strides of a racing horse, figures in the distance began to appear, brown and black figures milling about defenses, pouring from the hovel and slinking betwixt the tents. A chuckle freed as a stone began to twirl above the charging knight’s head. Loosed from the camp, arrows kissed the sky and thudded around the oncoming rider. A few of them caromed off his glimmering armor. A pebble came whirling back to answer. It bounced off the hovel and skittered through some grass. One arrow thumped hard into the horse’s chest, but the brute carried on with a whicker, snickering like the knight keaking upon its back. A gauntlet gave the mane a gentle rub as more arrows thudded nearby and flew overhead.

  It seemed an ocean of grass had passed under the horse’s belly before it finally jumped over the stakes planted in the dirt. Pebbles whizzed from the knight’s sling as he charged into the camp. Laughter sprouted from bandits scattered hither and thither. Only a few stopped laughing when a pebble knocked out a row of teeth, and the bandit who lost his teeth wasn’t one of them.

  “Is this a fully armored knight that charges with a sling? My jolly, boys,” a bandit muttered as he scratched his crotch. “I never thought I’d see such a sight.”

  An arrow caromed off Phillick’s spaulder as his charger thundered up to a squad of men huddled before a tent.

  “We got ourselves a hero, and his reward is death!” One of the four bandits before the tent thought himself funny, but the other three didn’t laugh.

  Eyes from all ends of the camp watched the knight’s longsword send a glamorous sparkle of light through the air. The warhorse came headlong with its tongue hanging out of its face, and the humorous bandit lost his neck before he could finish laughing at his own jest.

  The warhorse halted and reared, braying up a storm, kicking at the three bandits before the tent. Phillick parried a chop from his left. His riposte took the untrained bandit by surprise, costing the man a wrist. When the warhorse came down from its raging rear, one of the men before the tent went down with it, his ribs snapping under a heavy hoof. At that moment, an arrow nearly lodged into the sights of Phillick’s visor. The slit was just small enough to send the bodkin spiraling through the air.

  With his head rocking from the impact, Phillick spurred away from the tent and charged at a troupe of archers standing by the menhir. One of the archers dropped their bow and fled at the sight. Phillick knew that was probably the one who had just hit his visor. The other four archers below the menhir stood their ground and loosed. Phillick felt the full force of three arrows against his breastplate. Fortunately, they were low poundage bows. He grabbed the pommel of his saddle to keep stable as splinters exploded before his helm. A chip went in his mouth as he dug his sabatons deeper into his stirrups to prepare a charging sword cut. That’s when he realized a fourth arrow had drubbed his horse’s brain.

  The beast was a giant ragdoll collapsing with all the weight of its charge behind it. Phillick rolled off the saddle, looking like a sack of grain falling from a wagon. Struggling to get afoot, he brought his eyes up just in time to watch his dead horse crush a screaming archer. The sight was almost pretty enough to make him forget he was now on foot surrounded by an uncertain amount of enemies.

  The rest of the world was non-existent as Phillick jogged the rest of the way to the menhir, brandishing his sword. The three archers left standing bellowed laughter. Others from the tents were running to surround the scene. Phillick prayed he’d have enough time to slay these arrogant bowmen before anyone interrupted. After three more arrows dented his armor, he picked up his pace, holding his sword with both hands.

  The knight came uncomfortably close and the archers dropped their bows, but only to unsheathe baselards from their hips. The knight swung his sword in a wide lateral arc as he neared. His sword would’ve cut through all three of them if a baselard hadn’t raised to catch it. That deflecting parry allowed both weapons to wind back for a second go. Sparks twinkled as steel clashed again.

  The two unoccupied swords moved around Phillick to circle him. Phillick made a daring spin betwixt parries to make a haphazard cut at them. It was enough to startle them back so he could focus on the better opponent again. This grinning archer was a good dancer. Phillick had to feint a downcut in order to stab him in the heart. Turning back to the men at his rear, Phillick deflected a thrust just in time. Without thinking about it, the knight watched his sword lash back. The victim of the thoughtless lash dropped his baselard and stumbled away staring skyward, choosing to spend his last thoughts in peace, away from the violence.

  The last archer let out a chortle as he danced away. Phillick wondered why until he noticed the entire camp had made a serried ring around him, a circle of grimy targes and rusty axes. The last archer disappeared among all the new faces, but Phillick could still hear his chortle.

  “You made a mistake coming here, hero,” a bandit with one tooth presumed before he spat at the grass.

  They couldn’t see it through his visor, but the slim knight was grinning. “If you call me a hero, then y’all must be doing something wrong.” The ring around him tightened at that. Phillick quickly glanced at the menhir. The arrow carving was pointing right at the cave like he had hoped. “What are you bad boys doing here? Did you follow the arrows, too?”

  Laugher kicked up all around. “Arrows?” a bandit replied. “What arrows do you speak of, cur? The ones we let fly at you when you came galloping out of the woods?”

  “No.” Phillick straightened his back, his sword out firmly in front of him as he spun slowly, eyeing each bandit one at a time. “I’m talking about the arrows carved onto the menhirs. Like that one right up there.”

  Only a few men looked, and one said, “Don’t look away. He’s trying to trick us.”

  “But there’s really an arrow up there, Jack,” one bandit had to say it.

  “Huh?” Jack the Bandit mumbled and looked at the menhir. “That wasn’t there the other day.”

  Another bandit observed, “It’s pointing right up at the troll cave.”

  Phillick had to query, “The troll cave?”

  “Never mind the troll,” Jack spat. “Is it really arrows in the menhirs that led you here, knight?”

  Phillick nodded, gripping his hilt tightly. “Yup, this is the seventh and last menhir. We’ve been following them all day.”

  “Hmmm?” Jack rubbed the hair on his lip. “Is this the troll’s doing?” He eyed his fellow bandits around him. “I wonder.” At that, a burst of cackles made a circuit around the ring of bandits.

  “You killed my brothers John and Jacob!” a fat bandit bellowed. “It’s time for you to die, stranger!” He flourished his ax. The haft was longer than his leg.

  Jack hissed, “Our fat friend is right. We only flew arrows at you to save you from yourselves, but now we have to kill you. At least your partner was smart enough to leave.”

  Phillick prayed for mercy as the ring of snickering, dirty faces closed in fast. It was a melange of tattered aketons and threadbare brigandines, a score of crusty leather caps and no helms at all. Some began to bash their axes against their targes as they howled like wolves. Others flourished crooked spears and ugly bills, leering and chortling as they inched closer to the frightened knight. Then the thundering hooves of a warhorse made all eyes turn.

  One bandit didn’t turn fast enough and Prestings’ lance drove into his skull and took him away. Like a fly on a frog’s tongue, the man was yanked away from his mates. Yips and yells rocketed to echo against the distant escarpment, to penetrate the woods on all sides. Critters in the crowns and crawlers on the ground turned heads at the noise, hundreds of little eyes pursuing the human battle by the megalith.

  Prestings jiggled his lance to get the skull unhooked, then spun his horse around to make another charge at the serried bandits. Phillick was fighting several men at once. The ring had broken up to form a sort of wall. Of course, the wall faced the lancer. Prestings came gallop
ing back with lance held firm, roaring like a lion. The haft of a bill spiraled skyward as Phillick’s sword flashed in the chaos.

  Prestings charged right into the wall of bandits and snagged a man who didn’t get out of the way in time. The glimmering lancer emerged from the dusky fray and shook his lance to wiggle the corpse off, then tugged his reins once more to prepare another charge. He saw Phillick fighting five men at once. “Hurrah!” Prestings roared. “For King Kilwinning!” His spurs dug in deep, and the peppy warhorse took the malefic knight headlong posthaste. “Phillick, I’m coming for you, pal!” All weapons shifted towards the lancer as he screamed, “Hop on!” Those words went resounding across the glen.

  Hop on! Hop on! Hop on!

  Exhaustedly, Phillick flicked his sword to rebut a spear, then felt an ax biff the back of his helm. Stunned, staggering, he heard echoes.

  Hop on! Hop on! Hop on!

  With eyes blurry from sweat, Phillick swiveled and strained through his visor to see the galloping lancer riding to save him. He watched the lance impale a shoulder and snap like the jaw of a lion. Splinters longer than arms exploded around the leonine rider as he tossed the broken haft at a bandit’s face.

  Phillick held out his arm, half-dazed, rocking from the pestering blows of axes against his backplate. Ready to collapse from lassitude, he closed his eyes, listening to the thundering hooves grow nearer. Something mighty suddenly snatched his arm. Without opening his eyes, Phillick expelled the very last of his stamina to swing himself onto Prestings’ horse. His fauld retracted with a swish as his maille arse plunked on the saddle’s pillion.

  Hugging his savior tightly for support, Phillick opened his eyes to watch the chaos fall behind. It was a nebulous mess of angry faces brandishing iron edges.

  Labored breaths filled the inside of Phillick’s helm with ocean waves. When he closed his eyes again, the shouts and yells that trailed after him sounded like seagulls flying over a headland. The crisp breeze of the shore found its way into the niches of his armor.