Knights: Defenders of Ollanhar (Ollanhar Series Book 1) (20 page)

Gelarro
looked away, a haunted expression on his face. “The soldiers of Bellis
came and liked what they saw—a beautiful wife and daughter. They took them
away, supposedly to punish me for paintings that so deeply offended
them—paintings of war against Bellis, of the great dome burning. Can you even
imagine how deeply I suffered, watching them take my wife?” His eyes
widened. “And my daughter—who was only thirteen and so kind-hearted she
saved bugs from drowning—dragged off to a fate too horrible to contemplate. I
didn’t sleep for days, until I finally collapsed from exhaustion. I wanted to
end my own life, but I stayed alive because of the slim hope that they too
might survive and seek me out again.”

Faindan
sighed. “Horrible beyond words, my friend. What can I say that will bring
you peace? Nothing, really. I can’t even guarantee that Dremlock will defeat
Bellis, considering we are hopelessly outnumbered by Verlamer’s warriors. I
thought I knew pain when I cut off my hand, but your pain is unfathomable to
me.” He drained his ale mug and it slipped from his fingers and thudded to
the floor.

Gelarro
lifted it and filled it, handing it back to Faindan.

“Look
around,” said Gelarro. “You see my colorful home, with all of its
statues and paintings? Crammed full, with more to come. Soon there will be
little space for living. This home is actually a dreary prison, a place of such
loss that I despise it and am always trying to change it with more artwork. But
nothing I do matters. Each morning when I awaken, I expect to hear their
voices, but there is only wretched silence to remind me that life is heartless
and cruel.”

“Life
is heartless,” Faindan repeated, raising his stump of a wrist. “Well,
not all of it. Our god is just and merciful and good.”

 
Gelarro sneered. “Then why didn’t your
wonderful god protect my wife and daughter, who, at best, will receive a life
of slavery and hardship? My daughter, so young and innocent, dragged away
screaming by grinning, evil men. Where was your god then?”

“My
god could do nothing,” Faindan admitted. “It is a helpless god,
unable to walk—trapped forever in a chamber of crystal. It is only a piece of
a god—a Flamestone that represents the White Guardian’s mind. It has to rely
on its Knights to get stuff done, and we failed you, Gelarro. We failed you
miserably.”

Gelarro
guzzled some ale, then bowed his head. At last he said, “Don’t blame
yourself, Faindan. Mortal men and women can only do so much—even if they’re
great Knights. And I won’t blame any god—not even the Great Light that hovers
above the mountain like a watchful eye—for it is left to us mortals to freely
choose how we treat others. There is no one to blame except those with evil
hearts.”

Faindan
didn’t respond. He was slipping away.

“I
know it is absurd,” said Gelarro, “but I feel like if I can just kill
the Goblin in the moat and stuff it—to display proudly in my home—my pain
will somehow diminish. I have tried for years, but it is a mighty creature. If
you succeed, I will be forever grateful to you.”

Faindan
nodded, and then his mind went dark.

***

Faindan
ended up spending five days at the artist’s house, during which time he healed
up thanks to plenty of rest and meditation. The two became friends, and Gelarro
painted a picture of the young Knight holding his Flayer in one hand and with
his missing hand thrust into a cloak pocket. The painting captured a determined
but uncertain face darkened by stubble, with black hair that was in need of a
trim. In the background was a fiery crimson sky from the setting sun.

“It
is yours, if you want it,” said Gelarro, the next morning.

Faindan
declined. “Keep it, my friend. Maybe you can sell it to someone and earn
back some of your money for wasting food on this sorry excuse for a Knight.
Which reminds me—you should be paid a bit of silver for this.”

“Nonsense,”
said Gelarro, looking offended. “I will keep the painting as payment
enough and I will not sell it. It is one of my best.”

It
was time for Gelarro to head to town to sell some of his art. He loaded up his
small wagon and went off down the road, leaving Faindan in charge of his home.
Faindan ate some bacon and eggs for breakfast, drank two cups of tea, and then
wandered outside.

It
was a pleasant morning, with a bit of dew still on the grass and the air warming
quickly as the sun climbed into the sky. Birds chirped from the rooftop and
frogs croaked in the river. Faindan inhaled fresh air and then strode down the
river bank to the water’s edge. He gazed at the murky water that wound between
the hills, with the broken, mossy drawbridge sticking out of it—an old and
slimy castle moat from ancient times, the water too dark to peer into.

Faindan
studied the crumbing stone tower that rose from the water. If the Goblin liked
to linger by the base of the tower, all Faindan would have to do is wait for it
to show up and then attack. He sat down on the bank and waited, determined to
slay the beast and give its body to Gelarro. He had his doubts that it would
improve the artist’s gloomy mood, but he felt obligated to try and help anyway.

It
troubled Faindan deeply to think of the pain Gelarro was enduring, and it
fueled his anger toward Bellis. Those weren’t
Knights
who had taken
Gelarro’s wife and daughter. They were heartless cowards—especially if they
had harmed the two girls in any way. He wondered how people could be so wicked
and selfish as to inflict such misery on others? How could they sleep at night
knowing what they had done? Faindan wanted to crush Bellis and to behead King
Verlamer, but he was just a lone Knight with a missing hand—seemingly
powerless in the grand scheme of things. Bellis could do what it wanted,
however evil.

“Just
an idiot on a river bank,” he mumbled, tossing a stone into the black
water. “Soon to be just another failed Knight banished from the
Order.” He felt even more idiotic for talking to himself, but he kept on.
“Come on, you wretched Goblin! Come forth and die so I can be on my
way!”

But
the Goblin didn’t show, as the hours passed by. Faindan fidgeted restlessly on
the bank. Finally he rose and tried stirring up the water with stones, but
nothing responded. Finally he slumped back down with a sigh.

Faindan
dozed off periodically, as the day grew hotter toward noon and he began to
sweat—eventually awakening to a startling sight. Something strange was
floating down the river, moving toward him. At first he thought it was a dark
mass of tree roots, considering how still the object was, but then he realized
it was moving against the current. As it drew close, Faindan’s heart raced in
his chest, for he could make out warty flesh and two large round eyes.

The
creature neared the tower, and Faindan slowly drew his Flayer. The beast’s
tentacles writhed about and it sank below the surface. Faindan leapt up,
watching the water, but it did not surface.

“Come
back up!” he yelled, throwing a stone at it. He waved his arms and yelled
some more, but the river flowed on undisturbed.

Faindan’s
eyes narrowed. “I’ll bet you’re hiding by the tower, stuck fast to the
slimy stone and waiting for fish. Now you’re mine, Goblin!”

Faindan
quietly slipped into the murky water next to the tower and waded around it.
There was a quick drop off and the water was up to his chest. He hesitated,
chills rippling over his flesh. His inability to see below the surface was quite
disturbing, and for a moment he considered abandoning this idea. He assumed the
fish-eating Goblin wouldn’t be much of a match for a Divine Knight, one hand or
not, but the thought of it snagging his legs in the dark depths made him
shudder.

Nevertheless,
he moved on around the tower, determined to give Gelarro what he wanted. When
he reached the area of the tower that was furthest out in the river, the water
was still at chest level. His arm had grown tired, and his Flayer was resting
below the surface. He decided he would begin randomly striking at the base and
hope he connected with Goblin flesh. His biggest fear was that the beast would
flee down the river.

Then
something struck him with a dastardly jolt—almost like an electric shock
tearing through his muscles. Powerful tentacles wound around him, squeezing
with such force that only his Knightly sorcery saved him by shielding his body.
He could barely breathe before he was yanked below the surface.

Faindan
was stunned and horrified. He had never expected the Goblin to attack with such
speed, strength, and fury. Too late he realized and this was no simple fish
eater but a mighty, bone-crushing foe—probably an ancient beast that had been
put in the moat when the castle was still standing.

Faindan
fought back with everything he had, but in a few moments he realized he was
going to drown. He realized Gelarro would find him dead—his skeleton and his
clothes, if nothing else—and the artist’s despair would grow. Faindan had made
the biggest error of his life, wading into the river for an easy kill and being
ambushed by something he had no hope of defeating.

His
mind began to grow dim, and he stopped fighting, waiting for death to take him.
It seemed his time in the world had reached an end.

Then
a bright light seemed to flood the water—a piercing light that entered his
body, mind, heart, and soul and filled him with energy and strength. Suddenly a
magnificent bearded Knight was standing before him, filling his vision—a huge,
muscular warrior wearing the shining silver breastplate that only a Lord Knight
of Dremlock wore. This great Knight had a commanding and divine presence, his
flesh and armor engulfed in a radiant glow.

It
was Kuran Darkender.

The
vision was unmistakable. This was the first and greatest Lord Knight of
Dremlock, his image burned deeply into the mind of every Divine Knight. For a
few moments all Faindan knew was the glory and presence of this great warrior,
and then he broke free of the Goblin’s tentacles, tearing the slimy things apart.
His Flayer drove deep into the beast, finding its heart and finishing it.

Moments
later Faindan somehow found himself on the river bank with the slain Goblin
lying next to him. He was alive and unharmed.

Kuran
Darkender was gone.

***

When
Gelarro returned, Faindan said nothing about his vision of Kuran Darkender.
That was Knightly business and not something for the artist’s ears. Gelarro was
delighted to see the dead Goblin. He knelt by the creature on the river bank
and stroked its tentacles, an awed look on his face.

“What
an amazing beast,” Gelarro said, shaking his head. “Who knows how old
it is? It came up the river a few years ago and cleaned out nearly all the
fish. But its fishing days are done with. I hope killing it wasn’t too much
trouble.”

“Not
at all,” said Faindan. “I killed it with a single blow.”

The
artist looked a bit disappointed. “I would have thought the battle would
be a bit more perilous than that. Ah well. Maybe my imagination got the best of
me in thinking this beast was such a menace.”

Realizing
his mistake, Faindan said, “Oh, it was a perilous fight. Actually, I’m
rather fortunate to be alive.”

Gelarro
raised his eyebrows, and his smile returned. “Well then, perhaps I should
pay you a bit of silver for your troubles. I did well in town and have some to
spare.” He reached into his tunic pocket, but Faindan shook his head.

“Keep
your silver. You’ve done enough for me.”

“And
yet you’ve done so much more for
me,
” said Gelarro. “You made
my river safe again and gave me something to decorate my home—something that
is sure to improve my mood. You see, when I awaken on a cold, dreary morning to
cruel silence, and I think to myself that there are heartless monsters in the
world, I will look upon this Goblin and know that some monsters are just savage
beasts seeking to feed. They are not evil like humans are. I can’t explain it,
but that means something to me. The sight of this beast is refreshing—because
this is evil in a simple and childish way. Not the twisted, abhorrent, and
complex ways of humanity. The real monsters are humans without conscience, not
hungry Goblins just looking for food.” He sighed, as if unable to clearly
speak his thoughts. “It’s silly, I know.”

“It
isn’t silly at all,” said Faindan, though he didn’t understand. Goblins
were born of evil—the children of the Deep Shadow. It seemed that Gelarro was
confused from so much pain, grasping at thoughts that made perfect sense to him
but were incoherent to Faindan. Regardless, he seemed to be having a moment of
joy, and that made the bitter fight with the Goblin seem worth it.

“I
must ride on now,” said Faindan. “Farewell.”

Gelarro
nodded. “Farewell, great Knight of the Divine Order. If…if you
ever…” He fought back emotion. “If you ever happen to encounter my
wife and daughter, their names are…” He clutched his forehead and
groaned. “Their names are Leiathell—my wife—and Caithlin. Last name of
Braxul. Blonde hair, blue eyes…” He hung his head in sorrow.

“Leiathell
and Caithlin,” Faindan repeated gently. “Blonde hair and blue eyes. I
will remember this and watch for them.”