Knights: Legends of Ollanhar

by Robert E. Keller

  Ethrin laughed and then winced. "My jaw hurts." He rubbed the afflicted area. "Lucky I didn't lose some teeth. Bobad can sure do some rough and tumble when he puts his mind to it. Lucky for him I've had...thirty pints of ale this night. He took advantage."

  "He's a coward," said Vaska. "He always takes advantage. His favorite move is to punch a man who's not expecting it."

  "He does it well," said Ethrin. "Nearly laid me out cold."

  "Nearly?" said Vaska. "You were on your back the whole time, while I had to deal with Bobad and his idiot, oversized brother."

  "I was sleeping," said Ethrin, sheepishly.

  "You were drunk and knocked out," said Vaska. "I had to dump water on your face to get you to respond."

  Lothrin gazed on in disgust. What had become of his son, to engage in drunkenness and petty fights? Where was the dignity that a Birlote--even a half-Birlote--should possess? How had Lothrin failed him so miserably?

  "Bobad needs a good beating," said Ethrin.

  Vaska nodded. "I'm going to get him. Bet on it, Ethrin. He's got it coming, and it's way overdue." He grunted with the pleasure of the thought. "I'm going to smash his face into frog spit and then...spit on it."

  "Double the spit," said Ethrin, smiling. "I like that. Too bad you have no idea what you're talking about. What the devil is frog spit?"

  "Pond scum, you mule," muttered the trapper. "Where are you from, anyway? Frog spit it is, and you should know it."

  "I know that I'm drunk," Ethrin pondered. "And I know that you're drunk. And that's about all that I know. And I pay no mind to frogs or their spit. But then again, I hunt my meat like a man and don't spend my hours sneaking around mud pits setting snares and listening to frogs all day and a half."

  Vaska waved him away. "And who gets the money?"

  "You," Ethrin said sheepishly, his head bowed. He perked up a moment later. "But who buys the drinks? Tell me that."

  "Me!" Vaska snarled. "And I must be stupider than stupid."

  "Generosity is not stupider," said Ethrin. "It's gooder than...bad."

  "Gooder than bad?" Vaska sneered.

  Ethrin shoved him away. "Go sing to a wolf."

  Vaska shoved him back. "Buy your own drinks from now on, you leach. What have you ever done for me?"

  Ethrin scratched his head. "I saved you from that bear."

  Vaska threw up his hands in annoyance. "You saved me from that bear. You saved me from that bear. Same old answer. And I was a dumb, stupid kid, so what does it count now?"

  Ethrin didn't answer. He hung his head.

  Vaska muttered under his breath, then said, "That was a great shot, though. An impossible shot, it was. Sometimes I wonder if you're even human." He patted Ethrin on the shoulder. "Best hunter around. Anywhere, ever."

  Ethrin maintained his silence, playing it up.

  "Best friend I could have," said Vaska, nodding. "And that's the last compliment you'll get this night. So get your chin up."

  Ethrin smiled. "I was sleeping."

  Lothrin could barely believe what he was seeing. His son was some woodland loser--a forest drunk so pathetic he couldn't even buy his own drinks. This was the descendant of Olzet Ka who could wield the mightiest Flamestone of them all? This scruffy half-Norack who grew facial hair and didn't bother to shave on a regular basis? It was a shocking disappointment. Nevertheless, this was Lothrin's son, and the Ranger was concerned for him.

  "I need to rest," said Ethrin, as the path took them through a clearing. He sat down on a log. "The ale is wearing off, and I'm getting one rotten headache." He rubbed his temples and groaned. "My entire head is a lump of pain."

  "Already?" said Vaska, sitting next to him. "I'm still drunk on my feet. How can you handle so much booze, my friend?"

  Ethrin thumped his chest. "I'm stout. Always was."

  "You're not human," Vaska mumbled. "You can hold more ale than any man I've ever seen. And you've got those weird, pointy ears. Reminds of me the legend of the Tree Dwellers. I think you have some of that blood in you."

  "Our masters would kill me," Ethrin whispered, "if they thought that." He glanced at his feet. "Best you never say such a thing."

  "You've got tree-dweller blood in you," said Vaska, nodding. "I always knew it. The way you can climb when barefoot, those long dark toenails and...those pointy ears. And the way you move. No human is that fast."

  "Shut your mouth," said Ethrin. "Someday you're going to get me killed--and over a bunch of nonsense. I'm a Norack and that's that. No Tree Dweller has been seen in this land for decades. They're all gone, and that's the end of it." He balled up his fist. "Keep talking, and see what you get."

  Vaska nodded. "I'll keep my mouth shut. I always have. You're the one who draws attention to himself. Winning the archery contest so easily last spring out back of Jud's Tavern, with two soldiers looking on?"

  "That was stupid," Ethrin agreed. "They tried to recruit me afterward. They weren't too happy when I turned them down."

  "I worry about you," Vaska mumbled. As he tried to light up a pipe, he nearly fell off the log.

  Ethrin gazed skyward. "The moon looks strange this night."

  "It's very bright," said Vaska. "A good moon for a night walk."

  "It draws my gaze to it," said Ethrin, "and keeps it."

  "Whatever," Vaska mumbled, puffing at his pipe.

  Ethrin and Vaska smoked some leaf while Lothrin looked on impatiently and wondered why he was being shown these things.

  Sometime later, Ethrin rose and stretched. He wiped sweat from his brow. "Hot tonight." He removed his cloak, revealing a pair of brown trousers underneath held up by a black leather belt. A long, sheathed dagger hung from the belt. Lothrin was impressed with Ethrin's physique. Ethrin had the build of an elite warrior, lean yet muscular and extremely well defined. For someone who obviously indulged in booze on a regular bases, Ethrin looked as hard as a rock. Lothrin had not been expecting that at all. Underneath all the lowlife antics was a man with a physique most warriors could only have dreamed of possessing--one that showed no trace of fat and left every muscle visible.

  "I'm not so drunk anymore," said Ethrin. "I'm ready to head back to Jud's and have some more ale. And I'm certain a beautiful woman is going to come along tonight. Indeed, it will be my lucky night."

  "Count me out," said Vaska, rising. "I'm going home. Nothing but married women in these parts, Ethrin. Give it up. You're going to be lonely and single forever, and die in bitterness like the rest of us poor sods."

  Ethrin stood pondering for a moment, then shrugged. "I guess I need some sleep too. I've got important things to do tomorrow."

  Vaska sneered. "Like what? Sleep until noon and then eat?"

  Ethrin shrugged. "No, other stuff. I need to stock up on some supplies. I'm running low. So...could I borrow a bit of silver?"

  "I knew that was coming," said Vaska. He counted out some coins and handed them over. "Bring me some fresh venison."

  "I'll have it tomorrow," said Ethrin, stuffing the coins in his pocket. "No problem."

  "Stay out of the tavern," said Vaska, "until you bring me the meat."

  "Of course," said Ethrin. "Don't worry. I have no intention of going near that place until evening. I'm a busy man."

  Vaska sighed and shook his head. "We'll see."

  As the two men continued across the clearing, Lothrin became aware of hidden danger in the woods. He wasn't sure how he knew it was there, but he could feel it so strongly he wanted to cry out a warning to Ethrin. Lothrin suddenly felt like he was about to witnesses his son's death, and panic gripped him. Yet Lothrin remained a detached observer and could not interfere.

  Ethrin suddenly paused, gripping Vaska's arm. "Did you hear that noise? Someone moving in the woods."

  "Probably a deer or bear," said Vaska. "Who cares?"

  "No, it was human," said Ethrin. "Someone is watching us!"

  "Are you sure?" asked Vaska, his eyes wide. He drew a dagger, knowing better than to ignore Ethrin's
instincts.

  Suddenly a bowstring twanged, and an arrow lodged in Vaska's chest. The large trapper gazed down at it in shock, and then stumbled forward. He turned toward Ethrin, fear and horror on his face, and then collapsed.

  "Vaska!" Ethrin cried, even as a bearded, armored soldier stepped from the woods into the clearing, an arrow pointed at Ethrin. The gruff warrior grinned at the young hunter, eager to shed blood.

  Lothrin looked on in despair, waiting for the arrow to pierce Ethrin's heart and finish him. The bowstring twanged.

  And then to Lothrin's disbelief, Ethrin caught the arrow.

  His green eyes flashing in rage, Ethrin snapped the arrow in two and flung it aside. He drew his long hunting dagger, the muscles knotting across his frame in anticipation of battle--a picture of savage power and grace.

  Eyes wide with shock, the bearded soldier drew his sword and charged. Ethrin met him at the middle of the clearing, ducking a vicious sword stroke. Ethrin's dagger lashed out with such speed that Lothrin's eye couldn't follow it, and the soldier's throat was torn open.

  Ethrin seized the dying warrior and shouted, "Why?"

  But the soldier couldn't answer. His eyes glazed over in death.

  Ethrin shoved the body away.

  Then five more soldiers charged into the clearing. They held gleaming spears. They circled Ethrin, wary of his skill. They had come to assassinate Lothrin's son, and there was nothing Lothrin could do to help him.

  The soldiers closed in, thrusting their spears.

  Then a pale glow flooded Lothrin's vision. He found himself gazing upon the White Flamestone--the object he feared and despised. But he knew instantly that Ethrin was its rightful owner and that it could save his life.

  ***

  Lothrin snapped awake. He was lying in his tent, covered with a blanket. A Birlote torch revealed his surroundings in a crimson glow. He sat up, sweat dripping from his brow, and tossed the blanket aside. He wore only his tunic and trousers. His cloak--which bore visible bloodstains--was folded up nearby next to his boots. Relief flooded through him that his vision of Ethrin had simply been a nightmare. His son wasn't in any danger of being assassinated. At least not yet.

  He rose, pain flaring in his shoulder from the stab wound. He probed the injury and found it heavily bandaged. He could barely move his arm, but the shoulder would heal soon enough with rest and meditation.

  Lothrin stepped outside. The camp was quiet, with only the solitary figure of Lannon seated before a campfire. Lannon wore his hooded Birlote cloak, and he looked like a shadow next to the flames.

  "Lannon?" the Ranger called out, in a gentle voice. "How is my cousin?"

  Lannon turned toward him. "Prince Vannas is fine. Our enemies were defeated and will likely not return this night. However, the wizard escaped. I will be keeping watch until morning. You should go back to sleep."

  So the battle was over, and Dremlock had prevailed. Prince Vannas had survived yet another assassination attempt.

  But Lothrin was deeply unsettled, the memory of his dream about his son Ethrin refusing to leave him. Why was Lothrin so worried about someone who didn't yet exist? It didn't make sense, and it was frustrating.

  "Fool," Lothrin whispered to himself, stepping back into his tent. "Stop worrying about ghosts." His son wasn't in any danger because he wasn't alive. He was nothing but a possibility, a hope, and a dream--a phantom of the mind.

  After Lothrin lay down to sleep, he thought his fears would diminish--but they did not. He remained deeply worried about his son.

  Most disturbing of all was the part of the dream where the White Flamestone seemed destined to reside in his son's hands. How could such a thing ever come to pass? The Flamestone belonged to Dremlock and Prince Vannas. Yet Lothrin believed his dream had been sent by the Divine Essence for him alone to contemplate--a warning that Ethrin would die if the Flamestone didn't pass to him.

  Lothrin groaned. With so many struggles in the present, why did he have to worry about a possible future? The only thing he found slightly reassuring was that his dream seemed to have nothing to do with Bellis, as the soldiers had displayed no signs of being servants of King Verlamer and could have come from any kingdom. Perhaps in Ethrin's time, Bellis would be no more.

  Or perhaps Bellis ruled all--even Dremlock.

  That last thought was chilling, and Lothrin was glad he didn't know the future. He remained hopeful that they would find the Green Flamestone and put an end to King Verlamer's reign. He wanted to have hope, to believe in their quest. Surely the Divine Essence would never have sent them on this journey if a future where Bellis ruled everything was set in stone. There was still freedom here and there in remote places on Gallamerth, and battles to be fought.

  Yet as Lothrin finally drifted toward sleep, he found himself whispering in the dark: "Ethrin, my son. If the White Flamestone is meant to go to you so your life will be saved, then I will see that you get it."

  And Lothrin dreamed again--and this time in his dream Prince Vannas had been lurking in the shadows and had heard his words. Enraged, with the word traitor on his lips, the prince plunged his dagger into Lothrin's heart.

  And there Lothrin's dreams mercifully ended for the night.

  Chapter 7:

  The Haunting of Faindan Stillsword

  Ollanhar Tower was a dark place, and it was beginning to gnaw at Faindan Stillsword's soul. That darkness had been carefully concealed by shiny, colorful, expensive decorations--but it hadn't lost its potency. As Faindan wandered the keep, he began to suffer from an affliction known to Ollanhar's dwellers as tower madness that left him feeling like the walls were watching him and closing in on him. It seemed the ancient keep despised Faindan and wanted him dead.

  Faindan was not like Lannon Sunshield. He was not a Dark Watchman in league with the spirits that haunted the tower. He was a Divine Knight who wielded the white fire that drove back the shadows. His presence was intolerable to the tower shades and to the sorcery of Tharnin that still infested the stone walls.

  The darkness believed Faindan was smug and arrogant, with his shining sword and white sorcery. It knew Faindan had no tolerance for the things which hid in the shadows. The Eye of Tharnin was upon him, the Voice of the Deep Shadow was whispering in his ear, and the Mouth of the Great Beast was drooling to devour him. His dreams were filled with gloom, coldness, and despair. He desperately wanted to get away from Ollanhar, but that was not an option--not if he wanted to maintain his Knighthood and his position on the Council.

  "I need some fresh air," Faindan mumbled aloud, as he stood in the Library gazing at the bookshelves. The room was bathed in the crimson glow of Birlote torches. It was late and the tower was silent. All were asleep except Faindan and the guards that patrolled the tower grounds.

  He needed to clear his head. He was terribly restless and unfocused. But he wasn't allowed to walk alone beyond the tower grounds--especially at night, considering he was now a target of Tenneth Bard. Faindan had struck a devastating blow to the Black Knight, and now Faindan's life was in grave danger. The young warrior was caught in limbo, with no immediate duties to perform and dreadful silence as his lone companion as the hours passed by.

  He glanced up. A stone Gargoyle leered down at him while holding a tiny book. The sculpture seemed all too alive, the hatred in its eyes very real, and chills flooded down Faindan's spine. On another shelf was a statue of a beautiful mermaid reading in a bathtub--except she was looking at Faindan and not at her book, as if he had startled her. He almost felt embarrassed for interrupting her bath, but then he noticed her eyes seemed full of spite. Faindan blinked, wondering if he was imagining her expression. Why would such a beautiful, innocent mermaid have such a hateful look in her eyes? Was it because he was an unwanted intruder? Is that what the sculpture was trying to depict? He wasn't sure, but as he gazed at her, the spiteful expression deepened and became pure evil.

  Faindan looked away. There was hatred everywhere for him in Ollanhar. How had things come
to this? After being promoted and labeled a hero, he had seemed to be swiftly climbing the ladder of success as a Knight. But now here he was, isolated and full of doubts--and feeling utterly despised by forces he couldn't comprehend. It was as if the world had turned against him. He wasn't even sure the other Knights liked him anymore. Their faces held strange, sinister expressions and he was certain they were thinking ill of him and gossiping about him. They seemed to know something he didn't and refused to share it with him, and he found himself simply avoiding them altogether.

  He took out a book titled Ritual of the Roses by Sarahlyn Redtree that looked peaceful enough. The cover depicted a smiling maiden dancing amongst scattered roses. It looked boring, but it wasn't dark and sinister like the book called Shadow Goblin's Feast that had been positioned next to it. He scanned through the pages, glimpsing some drawings of butterflies and plants, and read some of the text:

  The peaceful earth sustains us, with breath, with food, and with medicine. The peaceful earth we must guard with sacrifice and ritual. A shining light from Father Heaven to warm the grass, where even a king's feet are equal to those of a peasant. Stand toe to toe and smile as you exchange the roses, for your gesture is born of the noblest and purest spirit of intentions.

  "What is this nonsense?" Faindan muttered. Happy people exchanging roses in the grass? What oddball had written this tome? At least it was mild and cheerful, offering a distraction from the tower gloom. He read on:

  We share in the gift of life and must make room for--and carefully nurture--all life, leaving nothing excluded except that which destroys without thought or purpose; and it is small, and it is unseen, and it will creep beneath your flesh, and it will borrow through muscle, organ, and bone, and it will infect and spread, and it will make pain, and it will change your destiny, and the body will wither--unless the light of truth floods through and burns away the poisonous darkness.

  A cold feeling settled over Faindan. Was that last passage referring to the infection of the Deep Shadow, or something else? Had the Deep Shadow burrowed into his flesh--into his very heart and mind?