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

by R. J. Eveland

  “Phillick, you foolhardy half-wit!” Prestings walked along the beach beside him, his strong voice a calming relief to hear. “What were you thinking?” The seagulls seemed far away now, the crisp breeze of the shore growing stronger. “Everything’s alright, pal. We’re getting out of here.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE SPIDER

  LORD DOLSHIRE NEVER wore a sword, nor any weapon. The glare of his burnished tonsure no longer shined so greatly when he stepped into the shade of a soot-stained archway, crispy bones crackling beneath his feet. “Almighty guide me,” he whispered, entering the keep. The almighty was his weapon.

  The bodies of Carl and Karl were sprawled on the floor of the hall, headless. Dolshire walked around them, examining all the dints in their armor, the blood congealing on the plates.

  A voice fell from above. “Welcome.” It was a gentle, calm voice—a gratified voice. “I watched you approach alone.”

  By the way it echoed across the hall, Dolshire couldn’t tell where the voice came from. The righteous lord spun in his robes, eyes raised high in an attempt to see who had hailed him. “I am Lord Dolshire. I have come to talk in peace.”

  “I was going to kill you with a quarrel, but I see you carry no sword.” The resounding voice made hairs rise up Dolshire’s back. “There are more than ten ways I can kill you right now, but I will let you speak.”

  “Thank you.” Dolshire spun and bowed at each corner of the hall, then looked back to the ceiling, half-smiling. “May I see your face?”

  “You may not.”

  Dolshire was half-frowning now. “Alright, then … may I have a seat?”

  “You may upturn that chair to your left.”

  The chair was right where the voice said it was, to Dolshire’s surprise. The hairs on his back raised again as he upturned it. Seated, he folded his hands on his lap. Choosing to speak at a tapestry, he began, “I can imagine this is a nice place to live, when it’s not besieged, of course. Sieges are such ghastly things. Did you hear what Lord Foulmouth plans to do to this place? It would be terrible.”

  Dolshire must’ve expected the silence that followed because he grinned and admired his fingernails. Finally, a response came reverberating around the room. “I was born here. And this is where I will die.”

  “Indeed.” Dolshire’s hands folded on his lap again. “But it doesn’t have to be like this. You can die here peacefully many years from now. It isn’t too late to surrender and repent. By the mercy of the almighty, I will make sure you are treated to your ranking as a prisoner of war. If you repent, you may live here again when the war is over. I have the power to save your life. Just surrender, and no more blood will spill here.”

  Another pause pursued. Dolshire anticipated a response this time, leaning forward in his chair, taking his eyes away from the tapestry to search for a face in the ceiling. A cynical voice came raining down. It made Dolshire shiver. “I’ve seen more blood drain into this land than you’ll know, priest. It keeps the fields fertile. Fertile fields make productive peasants, and productive peasants make a happy lord.”

  Dolshire raised a brow. “So you want to see more blood spilled?”

  The voice shouted out, “I want to see you surrender!” It echoed across the hall. “Men chose to spill their own blood when they came here. If I wanted to see more blood, I would kill you all right now. If I wanted, I could send fire raining on your pathetic camp. I could send hell itself. But, well frankly, I fear that would only make things too boring.”

  Dolshire lowered his eyes to humble himself. “The siege can be lifted if you surrender and …”

  “Quit saying that word!” The voice was outraged now, full of rancor and repugnance. “I’ll never surrender! Now leave my sight before I kill you! Go!”

  Dolshire bristled out of his chair and fisted his hips. His feet were firm in place. “I’m not leaving until I see your face. Tell me why you won’t surrender! Does this castle mean so much to you that you will die as it explodes? If you don’t surrender, all this you are fighting for will be obliterated and forgotten. I don’t believe you could rain fire on us. You’re bluffing, sonny. I know it. You would’ve already done it if you could. Foulmouth, however … Foulmouth never bluffs! He has enough black powder coming to blow this castle down ten times over. So what is the point of fighting?”

  “I’m done answering your questions. NOW LEAVE!” The voice tolled like a grand bell, ringing Dolshire’s ears. “I’m warning you! Leave before I can’t control my rage.”

  The chair was kicked away. It skittered across the floor and Dolshire stomped again, seething so hard his chins jiggled. “You’ll give me this castle, Lord Spywater!” He yelled his words hoarsely, his throat crackling with zeal. “By the power of the mother fucking almighty, boy, you’ll fall asunder if you don’t give up this bloody castle!” His arms flew above his head and he closed his eyes. “The almighty spit on you with ridicule. They watch you with contempt!”

  “I’m warning you!” The voice panicked, timid, frightened. “Leave this hall at once! The sight of you is driving me mad. I may not be able to hold myself back.”

  “I will not leave until I see your face, Lord Spywater.” Dolshire filled his lungs with heat. “Come down here and talk to me like a real lord. Quit this foolish game!”

  “Leave! Leave! Leave!” The voice trembled on the brink of crying. “I’m warning you for the last time! I don’t want to kill you, but soon I won’t be able to control my anger.”

  “You can’t kill me, boy!” The priestly lord shook a fist at the ceiling. “The almighty protect me! They’ll make sure that I live because I’ve been serving them since birth! They love me, and if you make the right decision, Spywater, maybe they’ll love …”

  Dolshire would’ve finished his sentence if the rattle of chains hadn’t fetched his attention. His head swung to see a spiked log whirl out from behind a banner on the wall. He leaped away for his life, but he wasn’t fast enough. Spikes ripped through him in a dozen places and the weight of the swinging log took him towards the ceiling. He felt the queasy lightness of flight as the ceiling grew closer. For a moment, he swore he could reach out and touch it. Inhaling his last breath, he noticed a tiny slit in the ceiling. It was a slit reinforced by a steel escutcheon painted to look like the stone around it. Two eyes within it were staring back at Dolshire, unblinking. They watched him die in midair.

  The heavy log fell back and flung the body to the floor with a splat. The log swung back into the wall and locked into place, reset. The banner fluttered over the hole and hid any sign of a trap.

  A droplet of water fell from the ceiling, alongside a whisper. “I warned you.”

  A fly landed on Dolshire’s corpse. It ate a few particles of skin then fluttered its wings to take off. Catching a breeze in the hall, it zoomed out and onward. It cast a tiny shadow when it flew through the scorched archway and into the sun. There it landed on a blackened body to nibble a few more particles of skin. Many other flies were around the same knuckle of meat, steadily sucking away with hairy hose-like mouths. The newcomer decided to feel up another female fly and lekked her with friendly antennae. It latched onto her and together they took off into the air, mating merrily across the bailey with bellies full of grub. As one, they fluttered over the gateway. Below, ants were still wielding the tools humans had left behind. Other ants were battling a slug on the half-finished gate, biffing it with a hundred tiny arms, wrestling in its slime. The mating flies above suddenly got snagged by a cobweb. A gold and brown spider scurried down. Its fangs dug in and released a numbing poison. While enjoying their last few spurts of pleasure, the flies were wrapped up into a ball of gossamer, forever connected in universal love.

  “Fuck your gate, sonny!” The raspy words darted from down the road, towards the castle. Off in the fields, a circle of stools and high faces sat coalescing before a green and blue pavilion. Foulmouth slobbered green splatter onto Highcross’ white cloak as he yammered, “I don’t care if you saw Spywat
er send a raven. I’d rather take my chances out here. We’ll dig stakes around a fosse and build watchtowers high enough to see for leagues. If Spywater’s allies arrive in high numbers, we’ll have enough warning to leave without trouble. I agree we still run the risk of Spywater having additional cannyns, but I bet he would’ve fired them a long time ago if he had any.” Foulmouth paused to make a snirtle that could match any pig’s snout. “Trust me, you’ll change your mind about wanting to camp in the bailey after you see my pavilion, boy. If you think that green and blue piece of shit behind us is my pavilion, then prepare to be astounded, sonny. That thing is just my convenient sex pod. My personal pavilion has eight chambers, built-in windows, and spans longer than all your forefathers’ dicks sewn together!”

  Highcross rolled his eyes and sipped some purple drink. “Fine, you’ve convinced me, Foulmouth. As long as there’s more women, wine, and merriment, I’ll do anything you say.”

  To that, Lafender raised a goblet and huzzahed. “I must bow to you, Foulmouth. It’s a blessing to be on your side. All we’ve to do is wait till your black powder arrives. Then the feast will truly begin!”

  A dozen more goblets raised with a hundred halloas. Lafender’s hopeful words were a boon to the music, a force that cast smiles across multiple throngs. Even the soldiers by the cookfires were affected by the cheer.

  Bob Redmand was sitting on the ground, leaning his back against the golden litter, listening quietly to everything. He was watching Lady Lossex dance with a painter. She was on the other side of the road, surrounded by foolish servants who seemed to be dancing for the first time. He had been watching her for a while, wondering why he still liked her. She had convinced him to stay when Highcross couldn’t. If it weren’t for her, he now knew, Highcross may’ve had to kill him. His heart kicked up in a fit when he noticed she was walking towards him.

  The sun was low in the sky now, casting orange light dimly across all surfaces. Lossex still wore the same satin dress. It had a few tears, some spots of grime, but it flowed prettily behind her all the same, dancing with the rhythm of her ankles. She drove her derriere into the grass beside Bob and hugged her knees, yawning, “All that dancing has drained me. A good sons’ warm belly would sure hit the spot right now. What do you say, Bob? Shall we retire to the inn?”

  Bob twiddled mindlessly with some grass in his fingers, then suddenly ripped out a clump of sod and through it at the sky. “Oink, oink, oink!” The thought of a night at any inn sounded about right, but it was remembering where he’d left his treasured dick-helm that made him suddenly rise. Without another word, he began trundling off towards the road.

  “So eager, are we?” Lossex sprung like a vixen and skipped over the grass to follow Bob along the road. “I wonder if the beer hall will be full of guests like Dorathy said.” She grabbed his hand. “I see the farmers have already packed up their tools for the night.” The music was all behind them now, but still loud as ever.

  Bob frowned at her hand eight times before they reached the inn. The beer hall was full of guests just like Dorathy had warned. Flickering candles on every table illumed rippling broth. Faces behind steaming bowls nodded at the newcomers. Whispers went quieter than the clanking of spoons against brims. Warmth form a brazier swept around Bob and Lossex as they shyly approached Dorathy at the bar.

  The buxom innkeeper was cleaning a bowl with a rag. “I hear footsteps approaching,” she announced, smiling with her eyes closed. “Could that be Saunders and Matty? How’s the new baby doing?”

  Lossex cleared her voice, placing a hand on the bar. “Sorry, it’s Lady Lossex and Lord Redmand. We’ve come back for a good sons’ warm belly, possibly a room if you’ll still agree to Bob’s deal.”

  Dorathy’s red cheeks rose up to the sides of her eyes. “Oh, it’s you twain.” She slammed the clean bowl down on the countertop. “I didn’t think I would hear your voices again. How did everything fare at the castle? It must’ve fared well if you’re back here.”

  Lossex smiled even though she knew Dorathy couldn’t see it. “It went well. They no longer think Bob’s a traitor, anyways. He can rejoin them now.”

  “Wonderful news.” Dorathy picked up the next bowl that needed cleaning. “So you’ve come to scrub my back, eh?”

  There was a tableau of awkwardness. Bob spotted his helm up among some pots and pans on the back cupboard. Candlelight from the tables behind him cast a primrose sheen across it.

  The innkeeper rolled back her head and howled. When she finished, she wiped a tear with her rag. “I wish I could see your faces right now! Oh, darlings, I was just teasing about the back scrub. I have a strange sense of humor, is all. You can share the largest room upstairs for the night. It’s the one with the tub and the fireplace, for if you feel like scrubbin’ each other.” Another guilty cackle went up. “Oh, I love teasing! Here.” She stooped to grab some bowls from under the bar. Soon a ladle was in her hand. “Have a good sons’ warm belly on the house!”

  Lossex felt a weight lift from her heart. “You’re most generous, Dorathy. Thank you!” Bob reached across the bar and stammered something. Dorathy was oblivious to it as she filled the bowls with broth. Lossex noticed he was reaching towards his helm. “I see you have Bob’s helm on your cupboard,” she said. “I think he wants it back.”

  Dorathy pushed steaming bowls towards her guests. “I thought maybe that was Bob’s helm. I almost used it as a pot.” She turned around and placed a finger on her chin, trying to remember exactly where on the cupboard she had placed it. “It’s a nice helm,” she had to admit. “There’s something about the shape of it that makes me want to touch it more.” She snatched it and thrust it at Bob. “Here you go, milord. Enjoy that broth. Now don’t mind me; I must start making the next batch. Soon the churchgoers will come swarming in like little devils.”

  A warm smile grew on Bob’s face as he picked up the helm and hugged it. The innkeeper waddled to the back counter where she began chopping onions.

  Lossex picked up both bowls carefully. “It looks like all the tables are taken. Shall we sup in our room?”

  After Bob nodded, Lossex led the way around some chatty tables and up the stairs.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE SPARROWHAWK

  A PAIR OF gauntlets sat on a mossy rock, glittering in the waning rays of the westering sun. A scrawny brown spider scampered up the rock. It scurried into one of the gauntlets just in time to avoid a swooping kestrel. When the threat was gone, the spider’s legs came twitching out of the shade, its many beady eyes seeing if the coast was clear. The kestrel fluttered up into the crown of an oak tree and alighted on a branch. It turned its eyes speedily to see the gauntlets below. They glimmered on the rock.

  Thinking all was safe, the spider beelined out of the gauntlet. The branch flung out from under the kestrel as it lurched and spread its wings. The spider’s tactile hairs felt the wind of flapping wings before its eyes caught the sight. There was no time to flee. The kestrel’s beak clamped hard on the spider’s spinnerets. Perched on one of the gauntlets, the kestrel swung its head around, spider legs flailing wildly from its beak. Unable to swallow its meal, the kestrel placed the spider down and put a talon on it.

  Squished under the pressure, the spider thrashed its legs about chaotically in a desperate attempt to wriggle free. As the kestrel’s beak raced down to stop the squirming for good, a pebble smacked one of the gauntlets. The pebble split into three shards that flew in different directions.

  Spooked, the kestrel beat its wings and rose away, its shadow blocking the sun from the spider’s many eyes. Perplexed, bewildered, grateful to be alive, the spider leaped off the rock and scuttled under the lapping roots of the oak tree.

  “Bollocks, I almost got it!” Phillick strolled onto the scene to fetch his gauntlets. The steel plates covering his body were hodgepodges of bends and curves, dinted to shit by the many blows they had taken in the bandit camp.

  “What are you talking about?” Prestings was deeper in the copse, ten
ding a wound on his horse. The two knights had only galloped away from the bandit camp for an hour. Knowing the bandits didn’t have horses, they felt an hour was far enough to stop for at least a little while. They had to treat the horse. It was the only leverage they had over the bandits.

  “A sparrowhawk, it was trying to shit on my gauntlets or something.” Phillick came ambling back, groggy from the nap he had enjoyed on the pillion. “I almost hit it with my sling.”

  “Leave the birds alone, Phillick.” Prestings was on one knee, wrapping a ragged bandage around the horse’s fetlock. “It’s not like we have time to cook them. Help me with the horse. It needs more water. We only have a few hours of sun left, maybe three or four. We can reach the road if we hurry.”

  Phillick withdrew a waterskin from one of the saddlebags. With his gauntlets pinched betwixt his elbow and his side, he filled his palm with water and let the horse lap it out with an eager tongue. The tongue tickled his hand, but that didn’t falter the frown on his face. “I’m not so sure I’m ready to head back yet, Prestings. I still want to know what’s in that cave. The bandits said there’s a troll in it. That must mean there’s treasure, too. Right?”

  Those words were like a poisoned dagger in Prestings back. The man bristled fervently. “After I had to come and save your life, you still want to go back there? Have you gone fucking mad, Phillick? Fuck a troll’s treasure! Medgard will be wondering if we’re dead. We need to head back for the road. I’ll beat you unconscious and drag you there if I have to.” As if his decree had been settled in stone eons ago, Prestings kneeled to finish bandaging the horse.

  Phillick rubbed the horse's mane as he hydrated her. A deadness in his eyes told the world he would never give up. “The bandits are half the numbers they were before, and they know now that we’re not the type of men they want to mess with. I say we wait till nightfall then sneak over to finish them off. Maybe we could even dress up as trolls and scare them away.”