Knights Without Kings

by J. M. Topp

  ‘I…’ began Elymiah. ‘I wish Bertrand were here.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Yngerame, ‘he is here, Elymiah. You cannot see him, but his teachings should always be carried in your heart. They will guide you through these trying times. Take heart, holy one. The sun is on the rise.’ The kind words from a member of the Hallowed Masters indeed soothed Elymiah. His name was indeed an appropriate one. Yngerame smiled and escorted her from the dark room. The rays of sun blinded Elymiah once more as Yngerame opened the door, and she struggled to adjust to the light.

  ‘My goodness! It is bright out here.’ Yngerame grimaced at the light and raised his hands above his eyes. ‘I try to not stay in these rooms for so long, Knight-Captain. It isn’t good on these old eyes or these dark days.’

  Yngerame laughed jovially and walked away from Elymiah, pulling his hood over his eyes. The rains had slowed to become a mere drizzle on the city. The clouds had dissipated into the midafternoon air. Elymiah was left overlooking a large field behind the chapel. Long ago, the chapel towers pierced the sky, taller than any building in the Khahadran. As the city grew through the eras, the city itself grew with minarets, elabourate pyres, and chapel towers, and was populated with birds flocking over the towers and streets. Sometimes the smell of bird feces overpowered just about any other smell in the city. Even so, this was home, and Elymiah felt a part of it now more than ever. Her eyes turned to a few stable boys playing with a leather ball in the large field. They kicked it back and forth between them, laughing and kicking up mud, undeterred by the soft spray of rain from the skies. Elymiah smiled as she watched them run with the ball in tow.

  ‘You did it, Ely!’

  Elymiah turned towards the familiar voice to see a man standing in full silver-plate armour. Robyn Segarus was not only her lieutenant, but had also been her truest friend since childhood. They had grown up together under the shadow of the Aivaterra royal keep, its citadels, and towers.

  ’You’re the talk of the whole city! Everyone, from the marketplace to the royal keep, is talking about how you defeated a mighty dragon!’ Robyn said, barely able to contain his emotion.

  ‘It was a wyvern, Robyn,’ Elymiah said, smiling to herself, but then realized what she was looking at. Robyn was not just in any silver-plate armour. He wore shining armour that reflected the sigil of the newly created Holy Silver Angels Platoon. An angel with hands put together and wings out to the epaulettes decorated the chestplate of the young knight.

  ‘Is that our new armour?’ Elymiah was stunned that it had already been made. She ran her hands across his chestplate, touching the delicate carvings of an angel. It was almost as if the Masters had made their decision even before the Anointing. She held her breath as she studied the stunning designs and masterful carvings. Robyn knelt before her.

  ‘I am honoured to serve under you as lieutenant. The platoon has been assembled and is awaiting you in the eastern courtyard. You would approve of the men they chose. They do look sharp,’ he said, bowing his head low to his chest.

  ‘Rise, Robyn. You do not need to kneel to me,’ Elymiah said, lifting Robyn by his pauldron. His closely-shaved brown hair accentuated his strong jaw. Robyn’s crystal-blue eyes looked up and down his own armour. He was clearly pleased with his getup, and Elymiah understood full well. She looked down at her cleric rags.

  ‘I suppose it would not do to appear in these rags?’

  ‘No, it would not, Ely. You have a gift awaiting you in your personal chambers. And I will take this.’ Robyn held out his hand and pointed to Elymiah’s broken halberd. She handed it to him, and he inspected the weight and stature. ‘The Hallowed Masters have sanctioned your use of the Iron Aegis, the best blacksmith shop in the Khahadran and maybe even the entire world. And now, you have access to it.’

  Elymiah ran her hands through her hair. It was almost too good to believe.

  ‘Is it true that we will go to war?’

  The question shook Elymiah from her blissful thoughts. A rogue cloud cast a dark shadow over them, almost as if it were listening to their conversation. Elymiah took a deep breath and turned to Robyn.

  ‘The queen has returned to us,’ said Elymiah. ‘She will follow Oredmere’s instruction as we follow hers. If that means war with Weserith, then so be it.’

  ‘Should we? She has been in that bloodthirsty city of Weserith for too long,’ said Robyn, looking up to the church steeples. His words struck Elymiah almost as heretical. She quickly looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. ‘What could possess you to ask such a thing, Robyn? What if someone heard you?’

  Robyn stared innocently at her. She tried to become angry at him, but she could not. Elymiah shook her head and sighed with a laugh.

  ‘Just do as I ask, and you’ll be fine. Understood, Robyn?’

  Her friend nodded, but then eyed her with sadness.

  ‘And Bertrand…?’

  Elymiah looked uncertainly at him. There was a wound deep in her heart that would never go away. She shook her head slowly, and Robyn bowed his head. Bertrand had been a good friend of Robyn’s. Though Bertrand’s main focus had been the upbringing of Elymiah, Robyn was always intent to listen and learn, and Bertrand had always been intent to teach. Oftentimes when Robyn had a question concerning history or his belief, Bertrand would fill the shoes of a father. One that Robyn lacked.

  ‘The funeral pyre will be set in the main city square for him. We will properly mourn him then, Robyn,’ Elymiah said as she put a hand on Robyn’s shoulder. She shook it comfortingly. Robyn nodded and looked into Elymiah’s eyes.

  Elymiah looked back at the children playing in the fields.

  ‘Assemble the men,’ she said. ‘I will address them before the sun goes down.’

  ELYMIAH’S QUARTERS WERE located in the southern most end of the city. Walking through the rigid stone streets, she took a deep breath, absorbing the smells and sounds of the city. It had been nearly a year since she had been in Aivaterra in search of her last holy trial candidates. She still remembered the feeling of excitement when getting the letter with the news of the wyvern in the Red Vale. Bertrand had been equally excited.

  Sand blew into Elymiah’s face, and she put her hand to her mouth to shield herself. Winds would often bring sandstorms from the Red Vale. Everything on this end of the city was covered in sand. She glanced at the houses that stood side by side. Brick was pelted with sand, and the winds were especially fierce here. Elymiah liked to think she had been born in one of those houses to a maid or farmer. But for some reason, she had been given to the church. Elymiah was adopted by a knight-captain and placed in the Trial of the Cherub almost immediately. She couldn’t remember much of her two years before being adopted. Elymiah thought about searching for her biological parents—perhaps to ask them why.

  But then, Elymiah remembered the man who had trained her and brought her up. Bertrand. It was difficult to consider a man your father when someone entirely different had raised you. Wind blew through the street, lifting her hair to her face. Dusty-brown stone houses stood side by side along the narrow road. The city streets at this time of day were mostly devoid of people. It was the accepted hour of rest in Aivaterra.

  Elymiah turned the corner and arrived at the military barracks. She opened the door to her quarters, and the hinges squeaked as she entered. It had been cleaned since she had left. A cot rested in the corner of the bedroom. In the center of the room, a brand-new set of armour rested on wooden stand. Elymiah gasped and closed the door behind her quietly. It hadn’t been there before she left. Someone must have brought it into her quarters during her solitude before the Anointing.

  The wooden stand held her armour suspended above the ground. Elymiah touched the gold and metal chestplate delicately. She stared at herself in the reflection. The beauty of the armour astounded her. Instead of silver designs like Robyn’s armour had, hers were made of gold. Her shoulder plates were rounded and polished completely clean. A bear-hide half-cloak was folded at the base. Elymiah picked
it up, and the cloak unfolded. Stitched into the fur, a gold symbol of the Aivaterran Sparrow displayed its beautiful wings.

  Elymiah’s breath caught in her chest at the sight. She had met and even studied under knight-captains of Holy Platoons before. Their armour never ceased to amaze her, but to call this her own? It was a feeling Elymiah might never get used to.

  The chestplate was decorated with the image of a woman carrying a flaming sword. She had two sets of wings spanning to the shoulders, and the other two sets dropped to the bottom of the chestplate. The thick metal clearly indicated that it was a heavy but powerful armour.

  She noticed an inscription along the steel border of the chestplate’s collar. She ran her fingers across the indentations of the letters as she read them.

  The fading of the flame will result in the attunement of dark. Steel thine senses and brace thyself.

  Elymiah held her breath as she realized this wasn’t just any set of polished armour; it had been her father’s. She danced her fingers on the steel gorget and pauldron. Her father had been Knight-Captain of the Holy Diamond Golem Knights Platoon. The armour had been refit and redesigned for Elymiah’s use. She gasped silently at her reflection in the armour before her.

  Lord Artus Lewelynn Farnesse, for whom she was named, had completed his trial at the Blade Fortress. He had fought the grey beast of the sea with only a small dagger and the adornment of courage. Once he had pierced the eye of the beast, he dragged it from the blade fortress to Aivaterra, alone. By the time he had reached the gates, the stench from the great beast was so pungent that he wasn’t allowed into the city. The Hallowed Masters had decided that he should be anointed then and there, before the city gates, for all to see. Elymiah had only begun the first of the seven trials then. She hadn’t been allowed to talk to her father, but Bertrand had found a way for her to see him anointed from the castle walls. She still remembered him wearing nothing but torn sackcloth leggings, bowing and presenting the putrid carcass to the Hallowed Masters. Elymiah’s father, Artus, had since become interested in adventure and mystery-seeking. Of course, after his thirty years of mandatory service, he had been allowed to indulge in such ventures. He had been given the Red Vale Keep as a reward but preferred to stay in Aivaterra, oftentimes attending performances that wandering circuses and entertainer caravans presented in the city. He had continued to do this until he found an ancient relic within his own keep, mainly by accident. Some said it had made him go mad with curiosity. Some said he had become a heretic and began tinkering with dark or even blood magic, but no one could prove it since he had disappeared without a trace and the Red Vale Keep had been consumed. It was then that unnatural, great sand storms had risen from the Red Vale and swept through it seemingly without end. The search parties that had been dispatched for him found only ruins. Some said they had seen great fires within the sand storms. Others said that they had been able to make out the outlines of men descending into the earth. Only the journal had been found and a long staircase in the dungeons of the keep, leading far beneath the earth but going nowhere but a dead end. No other trace of the Lord Artus Farnesse had been found. Elymiah remembered the funeral pyre that had been built in his honour but couldn’t remember feeling anything.

  What was there to feel?

  Artus was her father in name only. Though Elymiah would read through the journal often, looking for clues of his whereabouts, she couldn’t glean anything from the torn and blood-stained pages. Elymiah noticed the worn red journal on her shelf. She picked it up and flipped to the only page not damaged by water and sand. The old paper was brittle, so Elymiah turned the page with care. The penmanship was barely legible and seemed like it was written on old stones with a leaky quill. Elymiah squinted her eyes to read the words.

  I know your thoughts

  Your eyes scan these written words incredulously

  You peer into the splotched black ink in search of answers

  You will not find them here

  True darkness lies within

  Blame the Archdaemon or the shadows without

  They are not as powerful as you

  They are not as dark as you

  I will not survive our encounter

  But know this

  My heart races to you

  As my demise does me

  Alas, my child

  I hear their howling

  They yearn for my flesh

  My torch light wanes

  But I smile as I let it dim

  I will not die shamefully

  Sometimes the words on the old parchment did seem to have been written by a madman. Regardless, Elymiah kept that journal as a memento of the legacy her father had left behind. Perhaps one day, when she had completed her thirty years of servitude, Elymiah could look for him in that cursed keep and find where he lay to rest.

  A warm sensation began to radiate through her clothes. Elymiah had forgotten she that still had the wyvern horn. She pulled it from the pack and inspected it carefully. Its beautiful dark red and yellow colours seemed to dance inside the horn as she turned it in her hands. The jagged edge marked her hands with small cuts. Elymiah made a mental note never to touch the cracked horn again without gloves. Though warmth emanated from it markedly, it didn’t burn her this time. She had to find another way to carry it with her than simply in her pouch.

  -Hunter?-

  Startled, Elymiah dropped the broken horn to the wooden floor. It fell with a thud, and she raised her fists to fight. But there was nothing there.

  Elymiah slowed her breath to listen. Wind whistled softly outside the room. Elymiah shook her head. It must have been exhaustion playing tricks with her mind. The wyvern was long gone, and there were other more important matters to attend to. There was no time to rest.

  Not yet.

  She began to prepare herself for the addressing of her new Platoon. With the return of Queen Gwendylyyn, war might be on the horizon. It wasn’t a prospect Elymiah desired, but if it was the will of Oredmere, it must be followed. Elymiah would be ready. She left the horn on the ground as she prepared herself for her speech. The newly named knight-captain didn’t notice the small outline of flame the wyvern horn made on the wooden floorboards. A small puff of smoke rose into the air, disappearing without another whisper.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Augur of Fate

  CRACK, CRACK, CRACK.

  Two wooden swords collided against each other, splintering bits of wood from the thin blades. Candles on the table on the far side of the room fluttered softly as the fighters danced around the polished oakwood floor. Steel shields decorated the walls around them, carefully placed side by side. Their crisp colours shone in reflection of moon-light streaming in from the giant window of the room. A master and his apprentice stood facing one another in brown padded gambesons. Suddenly, in unison, their swords were a flurry between them. Striking up, down, up again, the timbered blades were precise and true as the experienced fighters attacked and blocked. They broke contact for a moment with swords raised. Wearing training masks, they paced slowly around each other, paying careful attention to each movement. Almost in unison, they lashed their timbered blades at each other. Blocking and swinging, the pair twirled, their feet pacing silently across the sparring room.

  Crack, crack.

  ‘Raise your guard. You are depending too much on your left leg, Sieglinde.’ A gruff voice emanated from within the master’s training mask. ‘You’re thinking too—’

  But he was cut short as he ducked an unexpected blow from his apprentice’s sword.

  ‘You speak too much, Father,’ said Sieglinde. She ducked and rolled at him, but instead of striking his body, she swung her blade at his sword in riposte, tossing his wooden sword far above his head. With his blade too far from his body for any defense, Sieglinde’s blade struck twice on his shoulder and lower leg. The attack occurred almost instantly, sending the master to one knee. She lifted her mask and flashed her smile at him. Sieglinde breathed heavily and leaned on her
training sword. ‘Only as an observation, of course, Bendrick.’

  Bendrick Greystonne lifted his mask and ran his hand through his grey thinning hair. ‘Oh, of course,’ he said, struggling to regain his breath.The years had not been very kind to him. Not because of the length of time, but because of what had happened within them. Bendrick had seen two wars and had fought in both. He was nearing his fifty-sixth name day. His shoulder-length hair was ash grey and visibly thinning. Bendrick’s beard, however, still held most of its brown colour. He had a spider-like scar above his left eye that fell down to his cheek. Despite his age, he was able to keep up with his daughter at sparring, for the most part. His daughter had learned extremely well throughout her years of training. Bendrick smiled at her and collected his breath. It was still an exhausting activity to spar for so long.

  The tower Athenaeum, the ing’s greatest gift to his wife, Queen Gwendylyyn LaFoyelle, had no parallel and thus was the capitols’ crowned jewel. The highest structure in Weserith stood at three hundred metres of painted white stone. The outer walls were dotted with steel shields of the king’s enemies who had fallen in battle long ago. Servants polished and cleaned them daily, careful to add colour to any detail lost to cleaning or erosion. At its base, which was two-hundred and thirty metres wide, laid porcelain busts of his conquered enemies. It was evident that the Athenaeum was as a somber testament of King Ayland’s domination over his vast land as much as it was a gift to his queen. The Kingdom of Eldervale was made up of three smaller states that had submitted themselves to his reign, and had been annexed into the kingdom, by force. Their rulers’ names had been blotted from the history books. Weserith had become the capitol, and from there King Ayland ruled Eldervale in its entirety.

  Hundreds of people would enter the Athenaeum every day. Scribes and bookkeepers would work painstakingly to write and copy scrolls and books. Academy acolytes would attend their daily scholarly activities, in search of wisdom and learning within the Athenaeum’s many rooms. Bendrick, having been an acolyte long ago, prided himself in the teaching he would often bestow upon the initiates. The Academy had been honoured when the king extended the Athenaeum for their use. The common man or woman was also encouraged to seek out the wisdom of the tower. There was no discrimination of the pursuit of knowledge and reason in Weserith.