The Maven Knight (The Maven Knight Trilogy Book 1)

by Matthew Romeo

  “If you had only cooperated, you could’ve avoided this, peasant!” one says viciously. He strikes him again with the stunpike. Holdin convulses violently, and then his body goes limp. Eyes wide but unmoving. Lánna screams his name.

  My anger begins to bubble forth like water boiling over a pot. It can only be managed if the heat is taken away. But the heat of my anger burns all the hotter.

  The soldiers see me approaching in my armor and halt abruptly. Even underneath their helms, I can see the looks of disquiet on their faces. But it’s almost eerie the way they stare at me, like they’re genuinely astonished.

  I give them no time to prepare. With my rage and sense of protection fueling me, I charge. The heat within my chest and head prevents any other thought from forming. Logic, reason, and even strategy are subsumed by the blind fury I feel.

  My body slams into the nearest soldier—the one who electrocuted Holdin to death. Dazed and on the ground, the Imperial is too slow to react as I roll atop him. I smack the staff over the side of his head.

  The element of surprise runs out faster than I anticipated. Like cold water splashing against one’s skin, the initial bite of it fades quickly.

  A stunpike whips towards my face and I barely raise my staff in time to block it. Vibrations jolt down my arms. Several attacks follow and I sloppily manage to block or dodge them. More out of luck than skill. Attempting to back away, I find the other two soldiers moving to flank me. I’m not fast enough to move out of the trap.

  Like pieces on the chess board, they position themselves to eliminate me. My face grows cold as the blood rushes away. Blocking another swing, I try to duck away and into a better position. A stunpike sweeps under and strikes my legs.

  A cold numbness hits my legs and they fold underneath me—sending me falling into the sandy cobblestones. On my back, I try desperately to swing the staff and trip one of the soldiers. One plants his pike vertically and blocks it. The sudden force rips the staff from my hand and it spins out of my reach.

  Then, the attacks come.

  Blow after blow from three stunpikes pummel every inch of my torso. Surprisingly, my father’s armor helps ward off some of the effects. But not for long. The soldiers strike me all the harder with the stunpikes. After a moment, everything is icily numb and I’m barely conscious. Squinting my eyes, I see Lánna cradling Holdin’s body and watching me in horror.

  I failed to save them. Even if she’s unharmed, she lost Holdin and I wasn’t fast enough to save them. Shame and anger well within me as I look at her.

  “Lánna, run!” I manage to shout.

  Something strikes me upside my head and darkness washes over my eyes.

  ◆◆◆

  I wake suddenly, gasping for breath as my heart begins to pound in anxiety. At first, I notice my hands and legs are bound by cuffs and chains. Then I notice that I’ve been stripped down to my shirt and pants. No armor or exosuit. Confusion and fear set in.

  Where is my father’s armor? I ask myself in a panic.

  I’m seated against the metal hull of the Imperial transport at the edge of the village. Fires engulf one of the markets and villagers are beaten and bruised in the streets. The screams have died down, but smoke still fills the air. A small crowd of the villagers watches from a distance. I see Lánna and Álvin watching me with solemn expressions, tears are in her eyes while Álvin looks grave. A dozen soldiers start marching up the loading ramp at the tail end of the ship. Two break away and approach me. They reek of snide arrogance.

  “You’re not Imperials,” I grunt. “Why attack us? Why are you using our convoy?”

  “We are the new marshals of Z’hart, fool,” one says.

  “I’ve met some stupid people in my life, but this takes the cake,” one sniggers tapping my side with his boot. “Not only do we have an account of assaulting Z’hart’s new militia, but we have one account of possessing illegal arsenals.”

  “Domain armor and weapons are now illegal for commoners to possess,” the other says, planting his stunpike in the sand. “All belongs to the Remnant, and so yours has been confiscated.”

  My body is tense like the knots in a lengthy rope. I feel my brow furrow, and my eyes pierce into them like a blade. In my twenty years, I have never been so appalled by the thought that owning my father’s armor was a crime. What makes it more outrageous is that no one before has tried to claim it as a crime. This new law has only recently been instilled, and I resent it. My father’s armor is not illegal; it belongs to me through right of inheritance.

  No one can take that away from me. No one will take it from me.

  “That armor belonged to my father, bastards,” I hiss dangerously, my anger returning. “It is mine by inheritance! You have no right to it, just like you had no right to raid our village. You’ll pay!”

  One of them smacks me in the face with the butt-end of the stunpike, eliciting a grunt of irritation from me. He says in a slimy voice, “We had orders to scour all settlements for Domain technology. And we had a quota to reach. Maybe if you’d come forth earlier, we could’ve spared the rest of Erron’s Ville. Shame.”

  I look at the others and see their solemn faces of defeat. I feel an echo of shame eating away at my anger. Was this all my fault? Bruises and blood are upon all their faces. I could’ve saved them from that. I tried to, and I failed.

  “Since we’re already on our way to the pits,” the Imperial says as they both hoist me to my feet. “You can serve a nice long sentence there with the other rabble we have on board. We’ll be taking your armor back to Centum when we’re done.”

  They drag me over to the boarding ramp as I hear Álvin shout, “Tálir! No!”

  I glance over my shoulder to give a look of assurance before calling back. “Don’t worry about me Álvin! Take care of Lánna and the others! I’ll be fine.”

  Álvin gives me a look that shows his disbelief at my last statement, but nods with reluctance. His face contorts in determined anger, and Lánna bows her head in sorrow. I’m touched by their affection, but I know it will be a long time before I’ll see them again. And that measure of grief chips away at my heart as if it were being mined like rock.

  As the moonlight illuminates the night sky, I’m dragged into the convoy and away from my home. Words can’t always describe a change this size.

  Chapter 5: Sarina

  The Convoy

  LOW RUMBLES ARISE from the underside of my seat and reverberates around the chamber I sit within. The reverberation is low and resonant, but somehow musical and rhythmical in a certain sense. One moment the rumble is soft and muffled, then another moment it is loud and clear. It feels like I’m sitting above an orchestra composed of only violins or cellos, but they all only played one, resonating note.

  The noise arouses me from unconsciousness, and causes me to lift my head. I am disconcerted and frightened as to what has potentially occurred. My ears start ringing as the vibrations resonate within my head, and my mouth is dry from being left agape. A mixture of smells wafts through my nostrils as I slowly awaken—the smell of stale sweat, engine fumes, and spoiling food.

  Fear clutches at my chest, and my breathing starts to quicken as I try to figure out what’s going on. I am like a trapped animal in a cage. Primal.

  Attempting to sit up, I find that something has been placed around my wrists—binding them to whatever I was sitting upon. Even as I open my eyes, a dark shroud clouds my vision—but it slowly begins to dissipate. While startled at the impairment done to my eyes, I am more terrified at how I’ve awoken in such a debilitated state.

  I try to think back. I am having difficulty remembering what had caused me to lose consciousness. A memory flashes by. The brewing of fresh ale. Orchestral music. Elegant food and clothes.

  That’s it? All I can remember is that I had been making drinks at a fancy dinner? My mind tries more, but then my memory goes blank. No matter how hard I try, I cannot remember what happened past the dinner.

  I look up, my eyes f
ully functional.

  I am seated on a metal bench that is as about as comfortable as sitting on a block of ice; my arms cuffed together by a standard restrainer and chained to the floor of the compartment. Due to the nature of this restraint, I’m constantly hunching over and straining my back. Seated to my right and left are a male and a female similarly restrained, but more composed than I. Across the compartment is another metal bench seating three other males and a female.

  Everyone is chained to the floor. Distress tugs at me again.

  We all sit in what appears to be a detainee cavity of a repulsor convoy, a ship that is bulky by design but sturdy and fortified to prevent escapes. A few florescent lights that cast a golden hue unto everything in sight light the rusted, fluid stained floors of the chamber. Various chains, cables, and wires affix to the ceiling and dangling like vines in a jungle.

  Our compartment is about ten meters across and thirty meters long, enough to hold two dozen and not be claustrophobic. While the compartment is generally empty, there are some containers and supply crates strapped to metal racks about three feet above us. First aid kits and small packages of food stuffs are additionally housed in wall mounted cubbies and shelves.

  While it seems like our transport has only been travelling for a day, the cargo aboard the ship might last us up to a week. It isn’t a comforting sign.

  The control bridge is behind a fortified blast door on the right side of the chamber while the boarding ramp is on my left. At the front of the chamber towards the blast boor, a hooded individual is chained to the floor. It is odd at first, but then I realize it is an attempt at solitary confinement.

  He is dressed finely as if he is a member of some importance: a black leather jacket that drapes to his knees with a finer tunic and pants. A crimson symbol is embroidered into his jacket, but I can’t tell what it is at my angle. A dark hood covers his head, but after a moment he turns just enough to allow a glimpse of his face. He appears to be in his late forties. Average features make up his gaunt face while black hair drapes past his jawline. Emerald eyes are a colorful contrast to the paleness of his skin.

  I’m unnerved more by his collected behavior and aloof attitude. Despite being a prisoner, his face is eerily nonchalant.

  “Ey!” one of the men sitting across from me shouts to the solitary prisoner. His voice is loudly obnoxious. It’s evident that he’s been talking for a long time. “C’mon, what’s your deal, man? Why are you so special being up there and not with back here with us stately individuals? I’m not going to stop asking.”

  The prisoner gives him a quick, apathetic glance through his draping black hair. He remains silent, but cocks an eyebrow before looking elsewhere.

  I start to glance at the others around me. I first notice the woman sitting on my left. She’s rough around the edges, but very attractive. Her olive skin looks odd with her whacky crimson hair held up by a headband. Her violet eyes shine with perturbed entertainment as she looks from me to the boisterous man shouting insults. She attempts to conceal a snicker.

  “He’s been like this the whole trip,” she says to me, glancing at the rambunctious man. “Drove us ballistic the first hour. But it grew on me. I think he likes the sound of his voice.”

  I feel a slight sense of relief at her friendliness. However it’s overshadowed by my apprehension. I don’t know who to trust and what to say. Do I tell her who I am? Do I ask if she’s a criminal?

  It makes little difference at this point. What I need it information. So I choose to accept her friendliness.

  “Or he just wants some attention,” I reply clandestinely. “I can imagine his attitude is a response for his insecurities.”

  “I never thought male prisoners could be insecure about themselves,” she says softly with a slight smirk. “But then again, I’ve seen this act before.”

  She pauses for a moment, and then says, “I’m Vivían, by the way.”

  I relax somewhat, yet I remain cautious. It can’t hurt to reveal a name. I don’t need to go into lots of details, so I nod curtly and gesture to myself. “Sarina. I’d shake your hand, but—” I cut off and raise my manacled hands.

  Vivían smiles but says nothing more, and instead diverts her attention back to the rambunctious scene before her. It’s like she’s attending a play.

  While a year or two older than I, Vivían seems much more laid back and composed. Even her wardrobe hints at a hedonistic side: tattered tunic which shows her midriff, short trousers, tall sandals, and a russet colored duster.

  I’m a stark contrast to Vivían in both appearance and fashion since we seemingly hail from different lifestyles. My beige tunic, fitted trousers, boots, and shoulder-cape clash with her attire. Not that it matters anymore, for my clothes now smell of beer, sweat, and oil.

  The boisterous man across from me is still in the heat of his own commentary. I actually believe he likes listening to his own voice.

  “Seriously, I’m all for solitary confinement and everything, but why did they pick his ass?” He lets out a scoff and tries to lean back. His lips purse under his dark goatee. “Maybe I want to be in solitary confinement! I was the one who punched that Z’hartian ambassador.”

  He lowers his head to his manacled hands so his fingers could scratch his black hair. Garbed in an azure tunic and dark pants, he seems to fill out his clothes with muscular weight.

  “Oh please, Devin,” the man sitting next to him snickers. “You haven’t done enough to get locked up in a juvenile detention facility. I think I deserve the honor. I boned that warlord’s fortress last month.”

  Devin, I think to myself and pinning the name to the face. Let’s see if any other names are mentioned.

  The man next to Devin is a wily, blonde haired and olive-skinned man with green eyes. Similarly dressed like Devin, they both seem to be in their mid-twenties and clearly have history. Although, the blonde haired man seems much more boyish.

  Devin regards the other man by saying, “It’s a shame only you and I find this fishy, Vyck.” Devin eyes the rest of us before addressing the longhaired man. “C’mon, man! C’mon! How come you aren’t on the bench with us?”

  Vyck, I make a mental note. Three down, four to go.

  “Do you understand what we’re saying?” Vyck goads to the solitary prisoner, with no avail.

  As Devin and Vyck continue to cajole the anonymous detainee, I begin to observe some of the other prisoners sitting across from me. Aside from Vyck and Devin, there is only one other male and a female cuffed along their bench.

  The male is a stocky, dark haired, bearded, and milky-skinned individual who sports a very similar outfit to the furtive prisoner. I’m instantly transfixed by the similarity, and I begin to grow suspicious. The only difference is that he has torn off the sigil on his jacket. Strange.

  Whatever the case, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the two are wearing identical outfits.

  Sitting next to him is an aristocratic, dark-skinned woman with a bald head. She wears a dirtied grey tunic with tan trousers, and the shirt looks like it has burn marks on it. Her face is rather gaunt and bony while her dark skin appears to be thinly stretched over her cheeks. It’s a trait that hints she hasn’t eaten in some time. She stares intently at the man next to her, whispering to him soothingly. They seem to be the same age, perhaps in their mid-twenties.

  It takes a moment, but the man’s skin turns even paler and he starts cradling his head. A sickness must be welling within him, for he looks stricken. Yet, he doesn’t cough, sneeze, or vomit. He just shakes and grunts.

  But as I observe the two and their inaudible conversation, something about them seems familiar. Part of me feels like I’ve seen them before, but my memory is still foggy. Nevertheless, I concentrate on thinking back.

  A muddled image of a banquet makes its way into my head, and it seemingly took place within some sort of cathedral. It must’ve been a formal festivity, but my mind blanks on any other details. I have some of the puzzle pieces.


  I just need to find the rest.

  Glancing to my right, I notice the last male sitting a meter from me. He’s maybe two years older than I, with shoulder-length auburn hair and bronze skin. His rangy, stubble-coated face and wiry frame tells me he doesn’t live in luxury. Tattered clothes smeared with utility stains and his stench of engine fuel says he might be a mechanic. Maybe a salvager.

  Yet, the most striking thing that stands out to me is that his hazel eyes reflect a plethora of emotions. Eyes showing anger, confusion, grief, and fear all at the same time. It is beguiling.

  I can’t help but wonder what is occurring in his mind. Is he feigning it? There is something about him that seems to be hurt, and yet vengeful. His eyes start to dart around as he silently looks at each of us. Hazel finds blue, and his gaze fixes on me.

  Instantly, I feel a bit of awkwardness after staring at him so I turn away. Odd, because I’ve been over my fear of talking to men for some time. But, there is always that awkward feeling I get when someone sees me looking at them. However, he doesn’t take it as an offense, but more as an opportunity to say something.

  “You know, it’s impolite to stare at someone without saying ‘hello’,” he says in a low voice, his mouth forming a faint grin. Clearly he’s trying to use a small façade to hide all that emotion. I’ll bite.

  “I wasn’t staring,” I reply shortly, trying to brush it off, “I was just observing you. Along with everyone else. I’m a bit new to this.”