Knights: Legends of Ollanhar (14 page)

Taris Warhawk--the famed Birlote sorcerer and Lord Knight
of Dremlock--stood before the platform to speak. "Some of you may wonder
why we are gathered here," he said, "for this is something the High
Council has chosen not to speak about until now. There will be no debate. Keep
your feelings buried and never talk about what you see here. Today you will
witness the humiliation of a beast. Not Trenton Shadowbane, who is a well-respected
and distinguished member of our High Council, but a creature from another world
that has been deemed unworthy to serve Dremlock. We will distance ourselves
from this creature forever."

Furlus strode forward and stood beside Taris. The muscular Dwarf
was in full armor--from horned helm down to spiked boots--though his bearded,
weathered face was visible. "We are reluctant to surrender this mighty
weapon," he said, "this wolf-like terror that no blade can bring
down. We did not come to this decision lightly. But we must obey the Divine
Essence. Trenton will not be harmed in this ceremony, but in fact will emerge
from it in better standing with our god and kingdom."

Trenton's scowl deepened.

"The High Council of Dremlock," Taris went on,
"has reached a unanimous decision--with Trenton abstaining from the
vote."

"We stand by our decision," Furlus added.

Shennen Silverarrow took position beside the other two
Tower Masters. "Bear in mind," he said, "that this is not in any
way tied in to Trenton's character. He remains a trusted Council member who is
deserving of our respect. This is simply a decision for the betterment of our
kingdom."

"
The shaming of the beast
," said Taris,
"is an ancient ritual that has been used before. I will say no more on
that, and if you're curious, I suggest you spend some time in one of our
libraries doing some research. I'm not particularly fond of the ritual, and in
fact I consider it rather pointless. But at Dremlock we have our traditions,
and we shall honor them."

"Trenton, would you like to speak?" asked Furlus.

"I don't have much to say," said Trenton,
"other than that I object strongly to this. I am not an evil man, and I do
not use evil sorcery. The beast itself may be evil, but I employ its services
for noble purposes. It is simply a weapon, and how can a weapon be evil? It
depends on how it is used. Let the record show that I am opposed to this
decision and believe it will come back to haunt us. Yet let the record also
show that I obey the word of the Divine Essence and the High Council and that I
am a willing participant in this ritual."

"Your words are noted," said Taris. "Now let
us proceed. You shall summon the beast, then allow it to remain until I command
otherwise."

As Faindan and the others looked on, Trenton's body became
engulfed in shifting shadows. Bubbling flesh cracked open and then became
covered in coarse black hair, and his face stretched into a wolfish muzzle. His
fingers tapered into vicious claws. Moments later the terrifying beast was
revealed in full, looking stronger than ever--a creature that seemed half man
and half wolf, muscles rippling with immense power upon its frame. Its eyes
smoldered with a hellish glow, its rage deep.

The beast knew why it had been summoned.

But Trenton was still there as well, controlling it.
Beneath the burning rage was a calm, subdued spirit--something almost sad. It
seemed appalling to Faindan that this mighty beast was about to be mocked.

The beast's crimson eyes found Faindan. The man-wolf seemed
to be glowering at him alone, as if it hated him above all others. Faindan
blinked and rubbed his eyes, thinking that surely he must be imagining it. Why
would the beast direct its hatred at him, when he wasn't even on Dremlock's
High Council? He closed his eyes and then opened them. The beast was still
glowering at him. The depth of evil revealed in those eyes was grotesque.

Chilled to the bone, Faindan looked away. He could sense
the monster was still staring at him, and the tension grew within him. He was
overwhelmed by the feeling of utter hatred that bore down on him. He refused to
look. He refused to be a willing participant in this madness of whatever game
the beast was playing.

The moments slipped past.

At last Faindan dared to look, and he found the beast was
not staring at him. In fact, its head was bowed. He wondered if it had ever
really stared at him or if his mind was playing tricks on him. Was this some
scheme of the Deep Shadow designed to drive Faindan insane?

Two men--actors--wearing black masks ascended the platform.
They tugged at the beast's long hair, yanking tufts of it free as they laughed
loudly. The beast growled but did nothing, its head still bowed. The men poked
at it, and then--using daggers--shaved off some of the hair on its chest,
leaving grey flesh visible. They flung the tufts of hair into the air and
roared laughter.

Faindan was filled with disgust. This seemed completely
unnecessary. Taris Warhawk also looked displeased, but the Lord Knight did not
interfere. Faindan found himself feeling sorry for the monster. As evil and
repulsive as it seemed to be, it surely didn't deserve this treatment.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

The masked men then seized the buckets and threw reeking
swill all over the monster. Slimy gunk dripped from its ears and muzzle. They
pointed at the beast and hooted and jeered.

"Leave us forever, you shameful fiend!" the
actors cried, dancing about.

"Crawl back under your rock!" they bellowed.

The beast growled at them menacingly, but they didn't back
down. They continued to dance around it, mocking it relentlessly.

At last the beast threw back its head and howled.

Faindan's heart was gripped by great sorrow. Somewhere
underneath that swill-covered fur was Trenton Shadowbane, perhaps fully aware
of what was taking place. Although the ritual was not intended to humiliate
Trenton, somehow he and the beast were one, and it all just seemed very wrong.
Faindan couldn't fathom how--or why--such a bizarre ritual had ever been
dreamed up. It was almost like a disturbing play starring the actors and the
beast.

At last, mercifully, the actors left the platform.

"It is done," Taris announced. "The beast
has been shamed and will never return. May it find peace in its own
realm."

The shifting shadows engulfed the beast, and soon Trenton Shadowbane
was again revealed. Trenton's clothing was fully intact and showed no trace of
swill (though the platform still held puddles of slime).

"Welcome back," said Taris, looking grim.

Trenton nodded. "I have an announcement to make, if I
may speak."

"Of course you may speak," said Taris.

Trenton hesitated, as if lost in thought for a moment. Then
he said: "I am hereby retiring from the High Council of Dremlock, and from
Knighthood." He removed his shield ring that signified his status on the
Council.

The onlookers were utterly silent.

Taris, Furlus, and Shennen looked saddened.

"Are you certain of this?" asked Taris.
"There is no way I can change your mind?"

"No," said Trenton. "My career as a Divine
Knight is finished."

"If you retire so suddenly," said Taris, "it
will be without benefits or recognition. Surely it would be wise to put in a
notice first and finish out your duties. As Lord Knight, I must strongly advise
you not to do this."

"But I
must
do it," said Trenton. "I
will simply walk away today and never return. This is my protest, and I must
ask that you honor it."

"I understand," said Taris, taking the ring.
"Good luck to you, my friend."

"And to you as well, Lord Knight," said Trenton
bowing. "Good luck to all of you. You will need it to win this war."

With that, Trenton Shadowbane walked away.

***

For the next two days, Faindan pondered what he had
witnessed. How could Trenton have simply left everything behind? Where would he
go and what would he do? With no money or even a horse to ride, the former
Green Knight would surely have a great struggle ahead of him. Faindan wanted to
help Trenton--to at least give him some silver to make things a bit easier--but
he was confined to Ollanhar and he doubted Trenton would accept any gifts
regardless.

Faindan found himself thinking of Trenton late at night,
the grim memories of the shaming ritual swirling through his mind and keeping
him awake. The crude, ugly, and seemingly pointless ritual began to seem even
more twisted and sinister as he pondered it. It felt as empty as Faindan
himself did--a shell that was detached from reality. He touched his face and it
felt numb. Nothing seemed quite real anymore. It was like a gloomy dream from
which he could not awaken.

The walls closed in tighter, whispering words of despair
into his mind. He felt smothered to the point where his breathing was affected,
and he thought that if he did fall asleep he might suffocate and never awaken.

On the third night, his dread and anxiety grew so potent
that he could endure it no longer. He rose from his bed, then donned his armor,
his sword, and his shield. If Ollanhar was determined to drive him mad, he
intended to go down fighting. He would go to the darkest depths of the tower--a
place he had been warned never to go. And there he would confront whatever
awaited him.

Yet Faindan paused. Why wasn't he speaking to Furlus or
Taris, telling them how tiny and dark his world had become? Why was he so
determined to deal with this on his own? He wasn't sure. He felt so detached
from reality that he couldn't summon enough rational thinking to know if he was
making the right choice. It seemed everything and everyone was working against
him--even Taris and Furlus--and he couldn't possibly confide in them. But what
if he was wrong and they would offer him the help he so desperately needed? He
had no answer.

He paced about restlessly for a bit, then decided he must
continue with his plan and venture below the tower. As he approached the door,
he thought he saw the masked faces of the actors that had tormented Trenton's
beast, grinning at him from the oak boards. His hand clamped down on his sword
hilt, but the faces were no longer there--if they had ever been there to begin
with.

Faindan thought he could hear soft music and laughter. The
laughter faded quickly, but the music remained. He knew it was the music of the
dead--a tune that sounded both familiar yet unfamiliar, a tune that was not
quite right or normal and flooded his body with chills. The music was known to
him from long ago--an ancient memory from before life--and it would someday be
known to him again. It would play when he died and his spirit crossed over, a
mellow yet triumphant sound welcoming him to a new home. He shuddered, wanting
nothing to do with such thoughts, for his mind was too wrapped up in darkness.

"Be gone from me, Deep Shadow!" he muttered.

In response, the music faded some--to the point where he
wasn't quite sure he could still hear it. He paused and listened carefully, and
he thought maybe it was still there. But he could have been hearing something
else.

He felt like a Ghoul as he quietly descended the stairs.
What creature of darkness had Faindan Stillsword become, in the deep hours of
the night? What lonely and creeping thing walked through Ollanhar, quietly going
to an unknown fate? How had a Divine Knight been twisted into such an
unrecognizable form?

He paused to gaze at a painting of a former Lord Knight
named Faktus Winterheart, who stood before some snowy pines and held a shining
sword in one hand that was catching moonlight. The gruff, bearded face that had
a patch over one eye gazed sternly at him. The one eye held a glint of disgust,
and the sword seemed poised to strike Faindan down.

Faindan gazed back at the painting. "Sorry, old
fellow, but I'm not your enemy. Don't glare at me like that."

Faktus Winterheart's scowl seemed to deepen. Faindan
noticed a streak of red on the Lord Knight's shining sword, as if it had been
bloodied.

With a groan, Faindan smashed the painting off the wall. It
landed so that Faktus Winterheart was still gazing at him--only now the Lord
Knight looked grotesquely evil. Faindan drew his own sword to cleave the
painting in two. Then he remembered that destroying an ancient painting was not
good for his career.

Clinging to that rational thought, he hung the painting
back up.

Faktus Winterheart seemed back to normal again.

"You'll get yours, Deep Shadow!" he whispered,
and then, before the evil reappeared, he hurried off down the stairs.

Chapter
8:

The Endless and Watchful
Hills

The Knights decided not to confront Bellis over the attack
on Prince Vannas. They opted to avoid bloodshed and stay focused on their
mission. They knew Ethella and the High Wizard would continue to make trouble
for them, but they preferred the threat of more assassination attempts over a
bloody war.

As the days passed by, and the fall chill deepened, Lannon
and the Knights found themselves traveling through the Oldermar Hills. They
were used to hill country--but not like this. The hills were enormous, the valleys
between them deep and long. Trees colored red and gold from the fall season
blanketed the hillsides that rose high above them, sometimes interrupted by
rocky cliffs and waterfalls. Old, battered houses were visible here and there,
many with yards strewn with junk (which reminded Lannon of the home he had
grown up in). Many of the houses protruded from steep hillsides, resting at odd
angles and appearing ready to collapse, with old pots, pans, broken barrels and
such scattered down the slopes. Some homes were dug right into the hills, with
metal chimneys rising up from the dirt.

"The land of the Malrogs," said Jace,
"better known as the Hill Dwarves. They are not friendly folk, and we are
not welcome here. They tolerate travelers who stay on the roads, but strangers
who dare venture into the hills are seldom seen again. This is a land where it
is all too easy to vanish forever."

Daledus nodded. "Malrogs--the Lowborn Dwarves.
Barbarians that serve no kingdom and obey no laws. They were cursed by the Deep
Shadow long ago, made deformed and ugly. They no longer serve Tharnin, but
they're still crude and cruel folk who have no love for outsiders."

"They are very powerful," said Jace, "and
quite dangerous in a fight. Their crooked arms possess the strength of Trolls,
and they are difficult to wound or kill. It is said they can tear a man apart
with ease. However, unless we stray from the road we probably won't encounter
them. They prefer to hide away in the hills in their ugly dwellings, when
they're not merrymaking."

A light rain began to fall, adding to the chill atmosphere.
The travelers shivered beneath their cloaks. Streaks of wood smoke rose from
the wooded hills from hidden dwellings, the scent of it strong in their
nostrils. They longed to sit under a roof and dry themselves before a fire, but
there were no friendly fires to be found here. They could sense eyes watching
them from the slopes--from beneath the colorful fall leaves--and could almost
feel the hostility.

The rain continued for days.

Jerret and Saranna had fully recovered from their wounds,
with some help from Dallsa, and Bekka was also doing much better. Bekka's
stamina had increased, and she was able to ride for hours each day and practice
with her sword. She still suffered from terrible nightmares, however, and
rarely seemed to get enough sleep. Dallsa continued to assist Bekka as much as
she could.

The arrow to the leg had made Jerret more aggressive and
more determined to improve as a warrior. Each time they stopped for a meal he
ate quickly and trained hard, refusing to rest. He dedicated himself to
mastering the art of deflecting projectiles--a skill more suited to a Blue
Knight--and was constantly trying to persuade people to assist with his
training. Fortunately he found a willing partner in Bekka, who filled the role
that Galvia used to occupy. Although Bekka was a Blue Knight and Jerret a Red,
they found ways to help each other.

Jerret's restlessness made him want to wander and explore
in order to test his growing skills. On two occasions he left the road and
wandered into the hills, which resulted in stern lectures from Aldreya.

On a third occasion, Jerret vanished into the woods while
they were camped for lunch. They waited for him to return, but after an hour
had passed, they grew concerned.

"I've had enough of Jerret's disobedience," said
Aldreya. "I am hereby ordering him confined to this group until we pass
beyond the Oldermar Hills. We will keep him here by force if necessary."

"That would be no easy task," said Vorden.
"Jerret is strong as a bull."

"I'm serious," said Aldreya. "He's not
leaving again."

"This is a dangerous situation," said Jace.
"He could bring the wrath of the Malrogs down upon us. They might assume
we have ill intentions--that we are trying to spy on them, or steal from them.
There are vast numbers of them living in these hills, and they will band
together quickly when threatened. That is a conflict we definitely want to
avoid."

"I'll find him," said Lannon, hurriedly finishing
his stew.

"I'll go with you," said Lothrin.

"No," said Aldreya, "let Lannon go alone. He
travels more quickly when alone, and there is less chance he will be detected
by the Hill Dwarves."

"They're already watching us," said Jace, looking
grim.

***

Lannon quickly located Jerret's trail. It went straight up
a steep, wooded hillside to some unknown destination. The Eye of Divinity
revealed that Jerret had moved swiftly up the hill beneath the ancient trees.
Lannon was impressed with Jerret's endurance. Running up a hill that steep and
tall was a remarkable feat for an armored Knight, yet Jerret's pace had never
slowed.

Lannon followed along at his own swift pace, but he used
the Eye to sustain him, feeding off its energy. The scent of earth and wet
leaves was strong in the forest, and animal and insect noises came from all
about. When he reached the dizzying peak of the hill, he expected to find
Jerret--but the trail went on down the other side, deep into a narrow valley.

He sighed and then mumbled, "Jerret, where are you
going?" It seemed Jerret had lost his wits to wander so far into these
hills.

At the heart of the valley was a winding river. Jerret had
used a huge, fallen log to cross. Lannon did the same, pausing to gaze down at
the dark water below. The Eye revealed healthy fish, which would make a nice
dinner. Extending his hand over the water, Lannon sent forth his power and drew
several fish into the air. He laid them on the bank.

"Easy fishing," he whispered to himself. But it
was also boring and empty of challenge. He would have preferred to catch the
fish in a more conventional manner, but lacked the time to spare on such
pursuits.

Leaving the fish for later, Lannon continued on.

He went up another hillside--this one even steeper and
taller than the last--and when he reached the peak he paused to rest, leaning
on a gnarled beach tree. He gazed up at the forest roof of red, orange, and
yellow leaves, the light rain finding its way down through those leaves and
hitting his face. The woods were fresh and full of life, free of the curse of the
Deep Shadow that plagued so much of Silverland. But there was darkness here in
this ancient domain in the form of those who watched from the shadows and hated
outsiders like Lannon. They were all around him and closing in, their stocky
bodies--kept hidden by trees, logs, and boulders--racing swiftly and quietly
over the hills, arrows and spears ready to be unleashed. Lannon believed he
could sense the Hill Dwarves, but he couldn't yet glimpse them with the Eye. It
was just a feeling in his stomach and a chill down his spine.

 
As Lannon started
down, he encountered an old house that was standing crooked on the hillside,
with a pair of huge oaks keeping it from falling over. The porch had collapsed
along with part of the roof, and moss and vines covered the structure. Jerret's
trail led into the house.

Lannon cautiously approached the broken porch, kicking at
some junk. There were moldy blue bottles in a heap--glass bottles that were
worth money in Silverland. Most of them were broken but a few were still intact.
He lifted one and examined it, and a centipede crawled out. He tossed it aside.

He made his way past an old cream can, an iron stove half
sunken into the earth, a mossy bucket, some broken plates, a long, rusted
stovepipe, a rusty bed frame, a broken table with legs pointed skyward, a lump
of rust that had once been a lantern, and a pile of shattered clay jugs (among
other discarded treasures).

The doorway was tilted along with the house. Lannon entered
onto a lopsided floor that tested his balance. The crooked house seemed to
drain his energy. "Jerret?" he called out, glancing about. He found
himself gazing at bare walls and clumps of moss, with another doorway leading
to another room.

"In the living room," Jerret called out.
"Just taking a rest."

The living room was actually somewhat level. Jerret was
seated on an upside-down bucket. He was soaked in sweat and looked weary.
Lannon studied the room with the Eye, and saw decades of life. The memories
were strong in this barren home, almost overwhelming:
 
family dinners that sometimes packed the house with people,
hearty laughter and children playing, warm summer nights, music by lantern
light, and harsh winters where snow would blow in through cracks by the door and
windows. He also saw drunkenness, a long illness and terrible pain, frightened
children, and deadly brawls. He glimpsed strange rituals when the moon was full
above the hills, and Dwarven men applying red face paint in preparation for
battle. For all their faults, the Malrogs took great pride in who they were.

Having seen enough, Lannon drew the Eye inside him.
"What are you doing here?" he asked Jerret. "Aldreya is angry.
You weren't supposed to leave camp, and you've been gone a long time."

"I twisted my ankle," Jerret said, "while
coming down this hill. I can't walk very well until the swelling goes down.
This looked like a good place to rest."

"Dallsa can fix it," said Lannon. "Shouldn't
take her long to remove the swelling and have you back on your feet. Can you
make it?"

"Maybe," said Jerret, looking doubtful. "If
I go very slow. The problem isn't so much my ankle but the giant hills."

"I guess I can carry you," said Lannon.

"Not a chance," Jerret muttered, folding his arms
across his chest. "I'd rather stay here and die."

"I'll just help support you," said Lannon.
"Will that work?"

"I suppose," Jerret said reluctantly. "This
old house is interesting, don't you think? I wonder who lived here, and why
they abandoned it."

"The Hill Dwarves," said Lannon. "The owner
caught an illness and became bedridden, leading his children to believe the
house was cursed. After his death they left it to rot away and have never set
foot in here since."

"Okay," said Jerret, smiling. "You've got it
all figured out with a glance. So why don't you use that power to defeat
Bellis?"

"I do as much as I can," said Lannon, who always
hated it when this topic arose. "Remember, I have an obligation to stay
sane and stay out of the Deep Shadow's clutches. Using the Eye too much can be
dangerous. The things I see...they have an affect on me. It's a serious
business."

Jerret looked skeptical. "If I had the Eye, I would
learn everything about everything. I would learn how to be an invincible
warrior. I would go where the greatest warriors once gathered and study all
their techniques."

"It's not that simple," said Lannon. Jerret had
no idea how perilous the Eye could be. Lannon could sense the things that
lurked in the shadows--things that would awaken if glimpsed. In ancient times,
the Dark Watchman had tried to gain too much knowledge too quickly, and it had
cost them dearly. Lannon was determined not to walk that road, even if it meant
having to avoid using the Eye.

"Why not?" asked Jerret. "You have the power
to know almost anything, and you barely use it. You're using...ten percent of
the Eye."

"Ten percent?" said Lannon. "So that's all
I'm good for?" Jerret's statement left him irritated.

"It's a crude estimate," said Jerret, shrugging.
"I'm going to be honest with you, Lannon. You're not very imaginative when
it comes to your power. Half the time all you do is punch, kick, or throw
people in battle. More than half, actually. The rest of the time you leap
around swinging your sword. Try to envision the things you could do. You could
crush an enemy's heart on command."

"I don't like crushing hearts," said Lannon.
"It's grotesque. And bear in mind that the Eye adapts to one's fighting
style and enhances it. Therefore, it's wise to pick a style and develop
it."

"And your style is tossing people around," said
Jerret, shaking his head. "The most basic and bone-headed style of
all."

"Last I checked," said Lannon, his irritation
increasing, "I was a pretty good swordsman."

"That won't last," said Jerret. "You barely
use your blade anymore."

"I use it enough," said Lannon, though he wondered
if Jerret was right. Had his swordplay weakened? The Eye was always in motion,
following his lead and changing to fit his needs.

"I practice with my sword every day," said
Jerret. "In fact, I could probably take you in a duel of blades if you weren't
so bloody fast. You fight like a brute, putting muscle ahead of skill. I know
all about muscle, Lannon. It's there to serve your sword, so you can deliver
more powerful blows and smash through armor. Somehow you got it into your head
that you need to wrestle with your foes rather than carve them into pieces. I
understand you have no love for bloodshed, but what kind of warrior are you
becoming? I fear for your future."

"I don't know," said Lannon, giving an honest
answer. "I just do what I need to do, and I don't worry about it. I don't
draw my sword unless I have to, and so far it has worked well for me. I'm not
dead."

"Not yet," said Jerret. "But Tenneth Bard
almost got you in that trail. He's sure to keep improving with his swordplay.
Will you be ready for him, or do you think you can take him with your
fists?"