Knights: Defenders of Ollanhar (Ollanhar Series Book 1)

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.