Knights: Defenders of Ollanhar (Ollanhar Series Book 1)

by Keller, Robert E.

  Knights: Defenders of Ollanhar

  by Robert E. Keller

  Book 1 of the Ollanhar Series

  Smart Goblin Publishing 2014

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Original and exclusive cover art by Carolina Mylius

  Copyright © 2014 Robert E. Keller

  Content Notice:

  A complete 106,000 word fantasy novel.

  About the Author:

  Robert E. Keller is a fantasy writer who has had more than 30 stories published in online and print magazines, and he is the author of several epic fantasy novels. You can find more information on his projects at www.robertekeller.net

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 1: The Rider Whose Soul was Iron

  Chapter 2: The Battle Beneath the False Moon

  Chapter 3: The Council and the Secret Plans

  Chapter 4: The Tower of Riddles and Dread

  Chapter 5: The Lawkeeper and His Bitter Tongue

  Chapter 6: The Festival of Souls

  Chapter 7: The Departure without Glory

  Chapter 8: The Joust for the Pale Hammer

  Chapter 9: The Ancient Horrors of the Soddurn Mountains

  Chapter 10: The Fiend in the Moat

  Chapter 11: The Celebration that was Ill Fated

  Chapter 12: The Trail of Darkness and Deception

  Chapter 13: The Shield Master from Silvergate

  Chapter 14: The Golden Truth

  Chapter 15: The Gauntlet of Axes

  Chapter 16: The Lair of Hatred, Flame, and Iron

  Chapter 17: The Defenders of Ollanhar

  Chapter 18: The Cursed Warrior

  Chapter 19: The Decision of Jerret Dragonsbane

  Chapter 20: The Banners of Ollanhar

  Chapter 1:

  The Rider Whose Soul was Iron

  The drums of war were sounding.

  Lannon Sunshield gazed down from a window of Ollanhar Tower, watching the shadowy figures gathered near the oak trees that surrounded the clearing. A small army met his gaze—Wolves, Jackals, Ogres, and Trolls. This was the second time the Goblins had gathered near his tower. On the previous occasion they hadn’t attacked—preferring instead to simply stand there pounding their drums and looking fierce for a while before retreating—but he sensed their mood was different this time. They were anticipating bloodshed.

  As Lannon looked into the gleaming eyes below, the familiar revulsion gripped him. It never ceased to trouble Lannon that such vile creatures could exist in the world. They seemed evil for the sake of evil—spiteful and bitter toward anything that lived, including each other. The Goblins didn’t just seek to kill their enemies, but also to make them suffer in unimaginable ways. Fortunately, most Goblins were too big, too powerful, too dumb, or too clumsy to do anything but slay their foes quickly. The few intelligent ones, however, were feared throughout the land—the Goblin Lords who knew how to inflict the deepest misery upon humans.

  The question again echoed through Lannon’s mind: Why was he protecting a perilous, cursed tower that hadn’t yet even shared its deepest secrets with him? This was a lair of evil, where the Deep Shadow infested the very stone walls around him. Progress had been wretchedly slow in cleansing the keep of that darkness. The tower seemed almost impenetrable, with frustrating snares and mysteries at every turn. Couldn’t Dremlock Kingdom find a better fortress to occupy than this dreary abode? Still, this was his new home and he was expected to fight to the death to defend it. It was his duty to his kingdom and, more importantly, to the lump of crystal below that kingdom that Lannon referred to as his god. He was here by order of the Divine Essence, and retreat was not an option.

  For a moment Lannon looked the part of a Divine Knight of Dremlock: a handsome blond-haired young man with a lean yet muscular frame. He wore silver, lightweight chain armor that was decorated with a black symbol of Ollanhar Tower on a green background—armor that looked fit for royalty. His expensive Dragon-bone sword hung from his belt, his hand resting on the hilt.

  Then Lannon removed his armor—which was for decorative purposes only and a hindrance to him in battle—and concealed himself in his Birlote cloak, his face lost in shadows beneath the hood. He retreated into the darkness and solitude of his power and focus, into that place where all Dark Watchmen dwelt and where no one else could venture. There was no escaping who he was, for good or for ill.

  A heavy hand settled on Lannon’s shoulder, and he turned. Vorden Flameblade had approached him quietly—the only other figure who stood in the Dining Room. Vorden nodded. “I see we have a window here now.”

  “It was always here,” said Lannon. “Just sealed with a piece of stone.” He pointed at a smooth, rectangular stone block in the corner. “There are other windows in this chamber that are still sealed. In their decay, the Watchmen must have grown absurdly fearful that their meetings would be overheard.” It troubled Lannon to think of the decay of his predecessors, and talking about it seemed to help ease his burdens. As the only Dark Watchman alive—with the others having died centuries before—Lannon was engaged in a lonely struggle to figure out who he was.

  “A bit more of Ollanhar revealed,” said Vorden. “This tower is a maddening puzzle, my friend. Will we ever have all the answers?”

  Vorden wore his exquisite black and gold armor—minus the helm that he held in one hand—that had been crafted by Blood Legion blacksmiths using secret methods unknown to anyone outside their order. Hanging from his belt was a simple, heavy broadsword. The large, muscular Knight from Gravendar always possessed a sullen expression. His black hair and beard were neatly trimmed, but his yellow eyes were wild and savage, betraying a side to his personality he was ashamed of and strove hard to conceal. Vorden was locked in a constant struggle against the Deep Shadow that had turned him into a raging demon and the leader of the Blood Legion. His soul was now free of that evil, but the price of his freedom was endless hardship.

  Lannon gazed down at the crowd of drooling, restless Goblins. “I fear we will have bloodshed this time.”

  Vorden shrugged. “It is inevitable.” He drew his broadsword and scowled. “This blade seems so fragile and dull, and does not channel my sorcery properly. How I wish I had my spider blade!” The sword Vorden spoke of, which he had found in the dreary mining tunnels below Dremlock, had been exquisite (and so-named because of a spider-shaped rune on the hilt).

  Lannon nodded. “I understand. I wish I had my throwing star.” King Verlamer had stolen a number of precious items when he retreated from Dremlock Kingdom after Lannon had defeated him in an epic duel. Some had been recovered, but many remained in possession of the tyrant king. The Glaetherin throwing star—made of nearly indestructible metal in its purest form—was a likely irreplaceable loss. Lannon was lucky to still have his Dragon sword, which was made from the bones of a powerful and rare type of winged Goblin.

  Vorden pointed upward. “What about the weapons in this keep? In that safe up there, just waiting for us to wield? Mighty weapons, like my spider sword—ours for the taking.” His eyes were distant, as if he were speaking to himself. Then he sighed, as if he already knew Lannon’s answer.

  Lannon turned back to the window, weary of the topic. “Yes, but I still can’t access them, and yes, I have been trying. I promise, my friend, that you will have one of those blades in the near future.”

  “It’s a matter of focus, Lannon,” said Vorden, his
expression hardening and the familiar commanding tone creeping back into his voice. “There is no excuse for failure. You have the training and experience to solve that lock.”

  Lannon knew Vorden was right, but somehow the Glaetherin safe at the tower’s peak resisted his best efforts—yet Vorden’s constant nagging did nothing to help. Vorden was desperate for a quality sword to match his magnificent armor. He had recently appealed to Dremlock to forge him a Glaetherin broadsword like the one Jerret Dragonsbane possessed—even getting Lannon to speak on his behalf—but the High Council had refused without explanation, leading the Knights of Ollanhar to wonder if Dremlock was running low on supplies or was dealing with some other problem.

  Of course, Glaetherin weapons were not given out easily, which made Jerret’s gift all the more puzzling to the others. It seemed Jerret had been granted his blade all too easily, and some of Dremlock’s Knights still harbored jealousy as a result. Vorden and Jerret were always in competition with each other, and Lannon suspected the sword issue gnawed deeply at Vorden.

  With a howl, one of the Trolls hurled a large bucket of decaying animal remains onto the tower grounds, spilling stinking filth out everywhere. The other Goblins leapt about and hissed with delight. Lannon’s muscles tensed in anger, but he calmed himself, refusing to lose focus. They wanted to make him angry and reckless, to drive him to attack, and he had no plans to play their little game. He was a Dark Watchman and supposed to be in control of his mind and emotions—relying on skill and precision to win his battles rather than a barbarian’s rage.

  But Vorden was not so easily able to hold back. He drove his fist against the stone wall, his yellow eyes smoldering with disgust. “How dare they foul the tower grounds? They will soon lay bleeding in that filth!” The aura of the Deep Shadow grew strong around Vorden—a feeling of darkness and despair, of coldness, that chilled Lannon’s soul. Vorden started to turn, but Lannon seized his arm.

  “No, my friend. This is not the time.” Lannon gripped him firmly—a grip of warning that showed Lannon was giving Vorden a direct order—as Vorden struggled with his dark emotions.

  Reluctantly, Vorden nodded. “Not yet, but soon.”

  “This is what King Verlamer wants,” said Lannon. “To enrage us, so we behave foolishly and do something we’ll regret.”

  Vorden nodded. “Yet if we don’t respond aggressively, he will continue to bully us. Verlamer must still be bitter over that embarrassing defeat to you, Lannon. He certainly doesn’t handle defeat graciously.”

  “It’s more than that,” said Lannon. “It’s all about the expansion of Dremlock, and Bellis’ fear that our kingdom will grow. If Verlamer can stop us here, at Ollanhar, and persuade us to abandon this tower, Dremlock will no longer be a significant threat to him. He will make every effort to intimidate us—to make us weary of the struggle. This is only the beginning.”

  Lannon gripped the window ledge, determined to never surrender Ollanhar—to his last breath if it came to that. They had to take a stand against Verlamer’s tyranny here and now. The Mad King of Bellis had already claimed most of the continent, and with the Birlotes and Olrogs choosing to avoid war, only Dremlock remained to oppose him. The importance of holding this tower was a crushing burden on Lannon’s shoulders day and night, mingling with the dreary darkness of the keep and striving to sap his will and strength. But he stood firm like a Divine Knight was supposed to, living a life of sacrifice where his own needs were put last.

  Vorden stood next to Lannon, gazing out the window. Lannon wondered what was going on in his mind. Vorden was dark and strange—a brilliant thinker in many ways, but constantly suffering from the shadows of his past. As always, Vorden was unpredictable, and Lannon found that disturbing. The further Lannon delved into his role as a Dark Watchman, the more he wanted to cling to the safe and familiar—and in many ways Vorden was neither of those things. The former leader of the Blood Legion was fearless when it came to death or destiny, willing to make any move, regardless of the risks, that would give an advantage. Vorden possessed a noble heart, but it was as wild as the wind.

  A pair of white-cloaked arms wrapped around Lannon, and a chin rested against his shoulder. It was Dallsa, a plump girl near his own age—barely an adult—who was in training to be a White Knight. Though it was against Knightly rules, Dallsa had no problem showing her deep affection for Lannon. She was constantly hugging him and leaning on him, which he found to be a bit annoying. Lannon was lawful to the core and didn’t approve of the physical contact, even though he knew it was merely her way of expressing simple friendship toward him (or so he assumed). But Lannon was fond of Dallsa and was impressed with her skills as a healer. He found her to be highly intelligent and enjoyed her company.

  “Greetings,” said Lannon, turning so he could free himself from her grasp. “So what is the situation?”

  She smiled at him and brushed a lock of black hair from her eyes. She had a pretty face with kind eyes to match a pleasant personality, but lying just beneath her warm demeanor was a hint of the stubbornness that could quickly overwhelm her and make her difficult to deal with.

  Dallsa was Lannon’s official messenger, and very reliable in that role. She had an outstanding memory and was relentless in her duties. However, she had been neglecting her warrior training. She had come to hate her physical training and complained about it constantly, but her skills as a Healer had improved rapidly—a sign of her immense talent.

  “Aldreya has taken position outside,” Dallsa answered. “She wants you and Vorden to join her immediately.”

  “I thought we were going to wait and see,” said Lannon.

  Dallsa shrugged. “She grew tired of waiting and seeing, and now she’s confronting. I don’t like it, either.” She shuddered. “I’m terrified.”

  “Calm yourself, Dallsa,” said Lannon. “This tower is not in any danger.” He wasn’t so sure of that, but he wanted to soothe her mind.

  She seized his arm in a death grip. “But what if the tower falls? What will happen to us? The Goblins will likely tear us to pieces!”

  “We’ll be fine,” Lannon assured her.

  “I like this move,” said Vorden. “We need to stop letting them bully us and start striking back. We need to send them a message.”

  Lannon pulled his arm from her grasp. “Stay here, away from the window. We’ll summon you if we need you.”

  Dallsa looked displeased, but nodded. She was still a Squire, and being poorly trained for battle, there was no reason for her to go outside. “Be careful, Lannon. I don’t want to lose you!”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Lannon. Yet combat was likely to be brutal down there, and anything could happen. So he added, “But if things turn out differently than I expect, go to the hiding place I showed you. There is enough food and drink in there to last for weeks.”

  She nodded. “I will pray to the Divine Essence to guide you, Lannon.”

  With that, Lannon and Vorden went below.

  ***

  It was a warm summer afternoon—a day that should have been pleasant—with blue sky overhead in which an Elder Hawk circled. But the day was made ugly by the army of snarling Goblins at the clearing’s edge and their towering catapults. The oak grove that surrounded the field in which Ollanhar Tower stood seemed threatened, for the monsters wouldn’t hesitate to hack or burn trees that were centuries old. They would lay waste to the mossy clearing as well with its lone, majestic apple tree, leaving only smoking, bloodstained earth.

  Aldreya Silverhawk, the recently appointed Green Knight of Ollanhar, waited outside with a number of Dremlock’s Blue Knights who stood in battle formation with drawn short swords and daggers. Also present were members of the Council of Ollanhar—Jerret Dragonsbane, Bekka Nightspear, Galvia Blazehammer, and Prince Vannas of Borenthia.

  “I thought we were going to wait inside,” said Lannon, as he approached, “like we did last time. Or are we looking to provoke a battle?”

  Aldreya pointed at the pair
of siege engines flanked by Ogres. “Those catapults changed my mind. We can’t just hide in the tower and wait to be pummeled.” Aldreya wore a green, hooded cloak—though the hood was thrown back, revealing her Birlote features—curly silver hair, pointed ears, shining green eyes, and skin was copper in hue. The young tree dweller’s demeanor left no doubt that she was a member of the Royal Family of Borenthia and in command of Ollanhar.

  “The siege engines are poorly defended,” said Prince Vannas, who was Aldreya’s cousin and the highest ranking member of the Birlote Royal Family present. Like Aldreya, he possessed silver hair and green eyes—a lean yet muscular young man with a slender sword at his hip. He wore green-and-gold clothing of Birlote silk. In one hand he held the black pouch that contained the legendary White Flamestone—the ultimate weapon against the servants of the Deep Shadow—and he was always eager to make use of its pale fire.

  “We must not attack until they show aggression,” said Aldreya. “The Sacred Laws demand it.”

  “But they’re just filthy Goblins,” said Jerret Dragonsbane, who stood with his mighty Glaetherin broadsword gleaming in the sunlight. “Why should we show them honor? They’ve already fouled our grounds with their bucket of swill.” His eyes smoldered with anger. “If that’s not a call to bloodshed, what is?” Jerret was a young man with curly blond hair and an arrogant look on his face. He wore the stout breastplate of an elite Red Knight and carried no shield, using his broadsword for defense. He was the most muscular of Ollanhar’s warriors. He made no effort to hide the fact that he lived for combat and bloodshed.

  Aldreya pointed to a rider in a black, hooded cloak who sat on horseback in the shadow of an enormous oak tree. This rider seemed to be leading the Goblin army, as the creatures swarmed around him protectively. He sat like death on his black steed, a bulky figure with a curved and gleaming battle axe held in two hands. He looked like an executioner ready to claim heads.

  “As you can see, there is a human amongst them,” she said. “Therefore, we are bound by the Sacred Laws not to attack.”