by J. M. Topp
The Ashen Knight
THE BLACK SEAS lapped at the bow of the Painted Basilisk in defiance as the crummy ship cleaved the high waters. Captain Ornelis kept land to the Basilisk’s port side, glancing to it from time to time to make sure that it indeed was there. Elymiah stood before the bowsprit, scanning the coastline carefully, almost as if expecting a daemon to spring from the forest that crept to the sea’s very edge. But nothing came.
The further south the barge sailed, the hotter the air became. Sweat collected on Elymiah’s neck, and she brushed it, wiping it off on her shirt. Salt water sprang up from the sea and sprinkled on Elymiah, dampening her clothes. Summer had begun, and it was hotter than Elymiah could bear. The sun’s rays were much stronger on the LaFoyelle Seas. The air above deck seemed heavy and difficult to breathe in. Captain Ornelis had to be very careful where he sailed so as to avoid staying in the pockets of light for too long, for fear of the sails catching fire.
In the time from their departure from Yorveth’s docks, the brand on Elymiah’s neck had begun to heal, but she had noticed black goo, almost like blood, dripping from the corners of her mouth and sometimes her nose. It happened without warning, and would throw her into a coughing fit. Elymiah was careful that neither the captain nor any of the ship hands saw it, because, being as superstitious as they were, they wouldn’t need another reason to kick her off the ship. They did eye her though, some with disdain and others with desire. Being a woman aboard a ship this small and broken down only served to fuel the ideas of superstition in their minds. But not all of them stared from a distance. A few times, a cabin boy would stop to ask her a question—sometimes about Yorveth, which Elymiah couldn’t really answer, and then he began asking her questions of her origin.
‘Are you from the Khahadran or Eldervale?’ he asked, brushing his long black hair out of his dark brown eyes. His teeth weren’t stained as most of the crewmen’s were, but they were indeed yellowed. Elymiah clutched the rail of the ship without answering.
‘You are from the mainland, right?’ he asked, again brushing his hair that fell over his face. He couldn’t have been older than thirteen years. Elymiah sighed and turned to look at him.
‘Where are you from?’ she asked.
‘I…I am from Sarene.’
‘Captain Ornelis hire you?’
‘Yes. You should join us. The crew could use an extra hand.’
‘I don’t think your friends would agree with you,’ Elymiah said, nodding in the direction of a few of his own mates staring with arms crossed. The cabin boy glanced at them and frowned.
‘Bugger them. You could stay here.’
‘You are sweet, but I can’t,’Elymiah said, looking off towards the horizon.
‘Why not?’ said the boy, and then his eyebrows flew up. ‘That man below deck…Is he your…?’
‘Yes, he is.’
The cabin boy frowned and shook his head. Without another word, he turned his back on Elymiah. At first, Elymiah wanted him to return. His conversation had been a small comfort to her, but she didn’t stop him. She turned her head back again to land and rested her elbows on the railing. She knew the crewmen were still staring, but Elymiah wasn’t scared of them. She was more scared for them. She could tear each and every one of them apart without much difficulty, yet that didn’t mean she wanted to.
But one day, one of them saw the brand on her neck.
‘The brand…’ he whispered and turned as if he had seen a kraken rising from the dark waves. Since then, the crew of the ship stayed as far away as they could from Elymiah.
Elymiah tried to stay below decks as close to Artus as she could. Artus had a pipe of the kind that Elymiah had never seen before. It had a long stem, and the bowl was nearly the size of his hand. It looked very similar to the pipe Korhas had had on the besieged walls of Weserith. The leaves he smoked smelled sweet and tangy.
One night, Artus handed the pipe to her, and she took it. The bowl of the pipe was warm to the touch. Elymiah took a puff, and her head instantly went dizzy, and it wasn’t the rocking of the boat. Artus chuckled and smiled at his daughter. Happiness washed over Elymiah, if only for a moment. Her eyes turned to a shadow sitting in the darkness of the belly of the ship. It sat hunched over and staring at nothing. Robyn couldn’t see them, but he certainly could hear them. He shuddered under his damp cloak. It was a cruel gift to continue to live under his conditions. Elymiah stared at him for a second and closed her eyes, blinking tears away. It is my fault. I should never have… But it was no use. Nothing could take back what she had done to him. She would do what she could to make his life comfortable from now on, as long as…
As long as I have the will to take revenge…revenge on…the Hallowed Masters. Elymiah gasped, and her eyes widened at the thought. But it was true. What had she done that deserved what had happened to her and Robyn?
Nothing. I did no wrong! She slammed her fist on the small barrel, making Artus jump.
‘What the?’ he said, nearly dropping his pipe.
‘Sorry, Father,’ Elymiah whispered as she stared at Artus’ pipe. She looked up at Artus and scratched her nose. ‘Your journal spoke of someone having darkness within. You said, “my child”, but what did it mean?’
Artus stared intently at Elymiah, as if trying to remember the words he’d written in that worn journal. ‘I was losing a lot of blood that day. Eymeg and I were hunting this pack of daemons, but they got the jump on us. It’s thanks to him I survived that day,’ said Artus.
‘So it wasn’t me you meant.’
‘I don’t think so, Elymiah. I hope it doesn’t disappoint you.’
Elymiah smiled at Artus. ‘Lately, disappointment has been my constant friend. I think I am very comfortable in its presence, Father.’ Elymiah stood up and gathered herself in her cloak. Without another word, she ascended to above deck. Soft winds greeted Elymiah with a salty kiss. The sand banks began to disappear and give way to the mountainous ridges and rocky formations. Higher and higher the seaside mountains grew, and at the very top rested the crumbling ruins of a castle. Elymiah squinted as she peered through the clouds. Her eyes widened as she realized that she was looking at the Khoryl Castle ruins. She remembered the look the wyvern had given her and the pain from its claws digging into her shoulder. The castle didn’t seem so tall from where Elymiah was looking. She noticed that its towers had finally fallen. The abandoned castle stood no longer.
‘Remember what I taught you, Elymiah?’
Bertrand’s voice echoed in her mind. Elymiah frowned in silence as she stared at the ruins.
I do remember, you bastard. Why did you have to abandon me? Elymiah imagined what would have happened if he was still alive. She probably would have killed the wyvern. She probably wouldn’t have given in to her desires. She realized Bertrand had been more than just a mentor; he had been a shield.
Elymiah missed the voice of the wyvern in her mind. She was saddened that the horn that had been lost amidst the current of the Kingsoul. She put her chin to her chest and stared at the wooden railing of the ship. The warm waters bobbing the ship up and down seemed so inviting. Froth collected at the edge of the boat as the Painted Basilisk plowed through the seas. Thunder struck in the distance, making Elymiah turn to the noise. The mountain ridge gave way to shore banks once more. In the distance, she could see sandstorms rumbling in the distance. Lightning shot through them with thunderous applause. Artus walked up beside Elymiah and put his elbows on the rail of the ship.
‘It’s been a while since I’ve been back to the keep. Too long, perhaps.’
‘I still don’t understand why we need to come here. What will this accomplish?’ said Elymiah, shrugging her shoulders.
‘Once you descend into the depths of the keep, you will understand everything I am telling you. The return of the Fog will be made clear, and the need for our order of Veledred will also become apparent. You need to trust me, Elymiah,’ said Artus, folding his hands in front of him.
‘Trus
t?’
Artus looked at Elymiah and then looked down at his feet again. ‘I understand you are mad at me. I would be too. But our calling extends beyond just you and me. The things I’ve done and the things you will do are for the survival of our kind. Without us, there is very little chance of survival for mankind.’
‘You put yourself in high standing.’
Artus grinned to himself. ‘I don’t get to talk about what I do with many people. Forgive me if I come off as arrogant.’
Thunder struck again, this time louder than before. The noise rushed to them and gave Elymiah chills.
THE RED VALE was located some five miles north from the coast, and the Keep itself that Artus had once called home lay somewhere in the vicinity. Wild and frenzied sandstorms had made the Red Vale their home. The storms hovered over the region like a large brown dome. The closer the Painted Basilisk came to the beach, the louder the thunder strikes became. Red and yellow lights shot through the storms. Captain Ornelis ordered his men to lower the sails and proceed on oars. His men obeyed and eyed the storms suspiciously. Winds blew all around them, whipping their clothes back and forth.
The Painted Basilisk sailed as close to the beach as she dared, and then Captain Ornelis turned to Artus.
‘Take the skiff to shore, but do not stay there long. If this storm gets any worse, you’ll have to find your own way back.’
Artus shook his head. ‘Better not leave us. You won’t get paid if you do.’
Captain Ornelis spit and frowned at Artus.
‘Then you had better hurry up, Veledred.’
Artus fake saluted, and together, he and Elymiah climbed down the side of the Painted Basilisk to a skiff on the side of the ship. Artus rowed as hard as he could against the tide as Elymiah shivered and clutched her black cloak to her chest. Before she knew it, the Painted Basilisk rested in the distance and the skiff touched sand. Elymiah jumped off the bow of the small boat into the mushy sand. Artus got off in the same manner and dragged the boat onto the beach.
‘How are we going to get through there?’ asked Elymiah once Artus had secured the boat. The storms looked even more gigantic this close to them. Sands whipped violently and impossibly inside. They seemed to be going fast enough to tear flesh from bone in mere seconds. Even armour might not be enough protection to enter the Red Vale.
‘You just have to have the key.’ Artus thumbed his oddly coloured hilt and unsheathed his sword. He walked from the sandy beaches of the Red Vale with sword raised. Elymiah turned to look at the ship. She thought she saw Robyn standing on the forecastle deck of the Painted Basilisk. She knew that he couldn’t see, but it seemed as if he were calling out to her—as if he were waiting for her to return. Elymiah tightened her grip on her cloak and turned to follow her father.
SANDS WHIPPED THE trespassers’ cloaks back and forth as if they were the sails of a ship in a terrible storm. Elymiah’s cloak kept getting caught in over her throat, choking her, but she pulled the clasp on her neck to her chest and walked forward, relieving the strain on her throat. She was barely able to see before her. Artus’ sword was raised, and suddenly, bright purple lights spilled from the beveled runes of the blade, humming like a wasp and blinding Elymiah. The winds snapped back as if they had been startled. They whirled and crashed against each other, but where Artus and Elymiah walked, they calmed their mighty breath. Elymiah could see nothing around or behind her but sand, but before her, Artus walked steadily. The sword glowed hot purple and seemed to emanate warmth from its deadly blade. The winds in the area around Artus blew through their clothes, but Elymiah could relax and open her eyes a little.
Before Elymiah realized it, they were at the front gates of the once-beautiful reddened castle. Elymiah and Artus walked through the open gates. Inside the courtyard of the small castle, there were no winds, only tall mounds of sand. Elymiah struggled to pull her legs high enough to gain distance. Her feet were sucked into the sands when she took steps. She didn’t like it. They were a good target in the open like this. But then again, there was nothing to attack them.
Artus led her to a corner building of the castle and stood beside the door.
‘And they laughed when I told them I was unlocking this earth’s secrets.’ Artus chuckled, sheathing his sword. They walked into the courtyard, and it seemed like the storms were kept outside of the keep itself. Sand dunes dotted the keep, but very little wind within stirred. Elymiah glanced at the lightning that flashed violently outside the walls.
‘Why are there storms out there but barely a gale of wind in here?’ asked Elymiah, turning to Artus. Artus passed the castle doorway and walked to a cellar in a corner of the keep walls.
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Not yet…’ said Artus as he pulled the cellar door open. Sand spilled through, but all was quiet and dark below. A long stone staircase coiled down into the depths of the castle, and Elymiah couldn’t see its end. Echoes of water dripping into puddles could be heard resounding in Elymiah’s ears, but she could pick up nothing else. Artus pulled a torch from his belt and lit the torch with an elven invention. The torch caught fire almost instantly, and Artus handed the torch to Elymiah.
Elymiah took it and stepped down into the cellar. She looked uncertainly down below and turned to Artus. ‘What’s down there?’
‘Best you look for yourself, my daughter. I will wait here,’ Artus said, closing the door behind Elymiah. She could hear the winds beating on the walls of the castle and a tremor every once in a while, but nothing else. She took a step down and then another. Elymiah’s torch flickered from a draft of wind as she descended the stone staircase. She followed the coiling of the stone steps down for what seemed without end. Step after step, Elymiah knew she would have to return this way. The thought made her exhausted, but she had to see what her father was talking about. Why had Artus left her? Elymiah steeled her senses and continued her descent. For the first time in her life, she was glad she didn’t have armour. It would have been a noisy descent and would certainly have alerted whatever was down there to her presence. As it was, she moved silently—almost ghostlike. The torch flickered in her face, and she wished that she could have cat’s-eye vision enough to see in the dark. She smiled at the ludicrousness of the thought.
Then, much to Elymiah’s surprise, the steps ended. A small rotunda seemed to be embedded into the dark, cold stone. Its five pillars stood out from the rough, brittle stone, much like the structures of ancient empires. Elymiah almost dropped her torch at the magnificence of the structure. Etchings from a time long past had been carved eloquently into the marble. The floor was dotted with circular stone carvings, but Elymiah couldn’t make out what they meant. But there was nothing else. No more steps. Nowhere to go but the same way she had come down. She walked to the center of the rotunda, but before she could inspect it any further, a small voice echoed from the rotunda.
‘I detest the fact that I still draw breath. Death. Come to get me, and make it quick, for every second of existence is pain to me. I lost him, and I am at fault. I will always live with the hot brand of regret on my neck. It will eat at my flesh and course through my blood forever. I will never be free of the torturous memories I once treasured with much adulation. Now I indeed am the husk of my former self. I am indeed hollow.’ The voice cackled through the dark room and turned to a heavy snickering. Elymiah whipped her torch back and forth, but she could see nothing.
‘These are your thoughts, are they not, Elymiah Artus Farnesse?’
‘Where are you?’ Elymiah whispered, her eyes darting back and forth, looking for a target. Elymiah turned and gasped in shock. The stone steps began to move, and the very last three steps turned into sharp, elongated jaws. A man in grey, ragged wraps of cloth stepped through the jaws of the steps. The man had ash-grey skin, and strange black markings dotted his flesh. He stepped through as he leaned on a cane. His beard was brown, however, and his eyes glowed bright green. His nose was perfectly chiseled, and he would almost look stunningly
handsome if not for the markings all over his body and the odd-coloured grey hue. The man stepped into the circular base of the cellar and looked Elymiah in the eye. She swallowed hard and looked into the eyes of the man, too shocked to say anything.
Yet, she wasn’t afraid.
‘No fear? You are much like your father, and you are almost exact opposites. Quaint,’ the man said with a laugh. But it sounded more like rocks crumbling and pitting against each other, as if the man had stood with his face over a chimney and inhaled for a month straight. Elymiah scrunched her nose and placed her hand on her hip.
‘This was the reason my father left me?’ Elymiah said, studying the man, not impressed by his entry. She had seen worse.
‘This?’ The man smiled cruelly. ‘I’ve been watching you for a long time, Elymiah. If only you knew the troubles I’ve had in bringing you here.’
‘Bringing m—? What are you talking about?’
‘Perhaps I should start with a name.’
‘Seeing as you know mine, it’s only fair,’ Elymiah said, anger building up in her voice. The man’s carefree attitude struck Elymiah as ridiculous. She had been abandoned as a child three times—once by her biological parents, who as far as Elymiah knew were long dead, then by Artus, and finally by Bertrand. Elymiah glared at the man before her, knowing she had better be satisfied with the answers.
‘I am the Ashen Knight, Elymiah.’ The man paused, as if giving gravitas to the situation. He then shook his head. ‘Not a name that most people know me by, I suppose.’
‘What do most people know you by?’ asked Elymiah.
‘Eons ago, when the First Age of Fog first terrorized our world, I was given a steed by my father. The mare was lit aflame, and naturally, it was strong and fast, but the flames consumed me. Thus I became ashen, for its flames turned my skin ash grey.’ The man glanced at Elymiah. ‘When I appeared before man in those days, atop my flaming mount, most people only remembered the horse I rode on. They always fell on their knees to worship and shout: “Oh. Red. Mare.’’’