Lady Squire- Dawn's Ascension

by Leonard D. Hilley II

  “Xylus was the strongest of your sons, was he not?” Tyrann asked.

  Xaeeria nodded, wiping away tears. “He was.”

  Tyrann folded his hands together, slowly shaking his head. “I simply cannot understand how any Overlander could have gotten an advantage over Xylus.”

  “Nor I. That’s why I beseech you to find and kill him.”

  “When the chance arises, my dear sister, believe me, I will make him wish he had never crossed into our realm.”

  Tyrann broke the connection with the orb. He glanced toward his Archbishop, Melichi. Melichi was slender with pale skin and red eyes. In many ways his complexion resembled a dead corpse. His fingers were long with pointed fingernails that were effective claws capable of shredding flesh into ribbons whenever he needed to draw blood from victims for altar sacrifices.

  He wore a hooded brown robe like a monk, which allowed him to blend into the crowds of major cities whenever Tyrann needed a fresh pledge. Melichi often took the pledges back to the City of Mortel and turned them into different types of undead soldiers.

  Depending upon what dark magic Tyrann needed to summon, he might drain the individual of his soul and turn him into one of his Soulless Knights. Unlike Mors, who favored raising the dead into zombies or ghouls, Tyrann transformed these Soulless Knights into soldiers that couldn’t be killed in battle by any other race. Zombies and ghouls could be destroyed, by fire or from the spell of a stronger necromancer. Soulless Knights showed no fear and followed their orders perfectly, without question. They never stopped until they completed their mission, and regardless of what enemy came against them, none of the Soulless Knights had ever been destroyed. They seemed quite invincible.

  There was only one stipulation that Tyrann was aware of: They were bound within the confines of the Black Chasm. Wherever the mists hung, they could thrive and hide, but for some unknown reason, they never passed outside the radius of where the poisonous purplish-black mists hovered.

  Tyrann’s demon minions could go wherever he bid them, but not these knights. Yet, there was a great benefit of having this army of knights within the mists. They provided a physical buffer should any attacking race have immunity or be shrouded by a protection spell to the poisoned air.

  Without souls, these knights still needed nourishment. They were blood feeders, using their long fangs to drain any foolish intruder or large animal that dared to enter the Black Chasm.

  Melichi stood before Tyrann’s throne. Crouched at the high priest’s feet was an undead human dressed in tattered rags. More bone than flesh was present on its rotted living corpse. Wormholes blemished its cheeks and occasionally a maggot wriggled free from a loose patch of flesh and dropped to the black marbled floor.

  Melichi rested a hand upon the frail undead’s bald head. It rubbed its face against his hand, being soothed by the high priest’s touch. “Easy, Iorta.”

  Tyrann watched the former human with amusement as it took Melichi’s hand into its own and kissed the priest’s fingers, then gently rubbed the back of his hand against its nearly skinless face.

  “We let an important one escape us,” Tyrann said.

  “The Overlander? He matters little.”

  Tyrann shook his head. “I fear he will do our cause and kingdom here much harm.”

  “What do you wish me to do?” Melichi asked.

  “You seem keen in blessing humans with vile curses. You are a dark priest, after all.”

  “That would require me to venture outside the City of Mortel in order to find him.”

  “So?” Tyrann said. “It’s not like you haven’t done so before.”

  “In all of this current unrest? The Vykings are battling to ransack all of the kingdoms for a naïve king that you’ve fooled into believing you have preordained to rule over Hoffnung.”

  A shrewd grin formed on Tyrann’s face. “You’ve heard about that?”

  “I laughed about it for hours. Such gullibility is rare, but Waxxon seems to possess far more susceptibility than all of the human race combined.”

  Tyrann nodded. “He does, which allows the gateway of Hoffnung to eventually be held by my sister and King Obed.”

  “That kingdom holds no true interest from them.”

  “Perhaps not. But the game of seeing Waxxon dethroned while he believes he has my protection is worth all the chaos he helped release. Nothing like shattered dreams . . .”

  “Do you really think he feels secure?” Melichi asked. “I’m wagering that he is as frightened as a timid mouse.”

  “He has sworn his allegiance to the dark goddess Una.”

  “Which is you.”

  Tyrann grinned through his black-weaved beard, leaned back in the throne, and formed a bridge with his fingers where he rested his chin. “He drinks the blood of the fountain without gagging or wincing every time he prays. His devotion is quite genuine. He sincerely believes Una has bestowed blessings upon him. But from henceforth, Una will taunt him with absolute silence, just as the other goddesses have always done.”

  “Never have they spoken?” Melichi asked.

  “Only to the king who unearthed them.”

  “Illiread?”

  Tyrann nodded.

  “And what did you make them say?”

  “They ordered him to build a temple around them and lock them away from the city dwellers. Otherwise, they’d turn their favor against the rulers of Hoffnung. He obeyed and appointed a priestess to reside within the temple as an intermediary.”

  “Many will now believe the goddesses have disapproved and abandoned Hoffnung’s throne.”

  “Faith is a humorous thing. All races have some deity they pay homage to, and yet, they never truly understand what they believe in. As long as goodness, health, and wealth are abundant, their gods are pleased. However, whenever drought, disease, and pestilence assault their kingdoms, somehow their gods are displeased and the people have this urgency to figure out what they’ve done wrong in order to correct it. Seldom do they realize the true unseen forces of good and evil that clash against one another as the real reasons for why blessings and curses fall.”

  Melichi frowned and then smiled slightly. “I think you just eliminated my entire purpose for being.”

  “You are an intermediary, as am I, to call upon the evil that we unleash upon the kingdoms. We’re in this battle because we have been deemed worthy of utilizing the power granted unto us. But the majority of societies haven’t the slightest understanding of what true power is. They believe in deities because they are taught to do so. But they are not taught the unlimited power they could possess. That’s why wizards, mages, and priests gain access. They are trained to tap into the magical energies. It is their souls’ intent that determines whether they become followers of darkness or the light.”

  Melichi folded his hands in a prayer-like manner. His face became solemn, his eyes deceptively gentle. Iorta rubbed his head against Melichi’s leg. Melichi leaned forward and kissed Tyrann’s signet ring. “Outside influences are also a factor in one’s destiny.”

  “Indeed. And you’ve followed in my footsteps quite well, Melichi.”

  The priest offered a humble bow. Iorta’s long tongue looped outward and drool dripped from the sides of his mouth.

  Tyrann smiled. “Your loyalty is greater than any within the City of Mortel. Perhaps that is why I entrust so much to you.”

  “You’re most gracious,” Melichi said. “Are you planning to help your sister with the siege of Aetheaon?”

  “Far from it. I will never sacrifice my own legions for the Vyking king.”

  “Then why did you call me here?”

  “I have summoned you and Goraith, who has yet to appear, to go after this Outlander, to find him, and bring him to me.”

  “Goraith?” Melichi frowned. “The Beastlord? Why have you called him?”

  A low chuckle rumbled inside Tyrann’s throat. “As I said, I will not contribute to the Vykings’ cause by sacrificing my minions. But, with you
guiding the undead and Goraith commanding his Goatmen, you can find the Outlander and his little faery . . .”

  “Fae?” Melichi asked, his eyes darting quickly toward Tyrann. Iorta’s wide eyes widened, and he scooted behind the helm of Melichi’s robe in fear. “He has a faery with him?”

  Tyrann nodded. “Is that a problem?”

  “Curses like mine seldom strike a man blessed by a faery’s touch. Fae are immune to my spells and curses.”

  “He’s not immune to the ghouls you control, is he?”

  “No. Most certainly not.”

  “Then use them to take him. Understand that I don’t want him dead. And Goraith will fall under the same order.”

  “What do you wish to do with him?” Melichi asked.

  “Drain his soul and add him to my knights. There is something different about him.”

  A hoarse bleating sound echoed from deeper in the dark fortress.

  “Ah, Goraith has arrived,” Tyrann said.

  Melichi bowed slightly, his hands still clasped together. He reached down and took Iorta by the hand. “I have matters to attend to, if you don’t mind my absence?”

  Tyrann waved him away.

  No sooner had Melichi blended into the dark shadows, Goraith emerged. He approached the throne. His body frame was like a man, but his head was that of a goat. His black horns curled back over his head. His menacing gaze fastened upon Tyrann.

  Goraith wore a thick leather chestpiece, bracers, and leggings down to his knees. With large cloven hooves coated in steel, he wore no boots. His arms were thickly muscular as was his chest. Thick bristly hair covered his body.

  His raspy breathing rolled thickly inside his throat. When he spoke his voice was deep and rattled. “Why have you summoned me?”

  Tyrann retold Goraith what he had spoken to Melichi.

  The Beastlord’s goat-like eyes were like dark mirrors, capable of terrorizing normal humans. “I see. I can send out some of my archers, but first you must tell me where to find him.”

  “That has yet to be determined.”

  Goraith tilted his head to the side and studied Tyrann momentarily. “Summon me again, when you know where he is. We hate humans, and hunting an Overlander might prove to be a challenge we’ve yet undertaken.”

  “I don’t want him dead.”

  Goraith laughed with what sounded more like bleating than laughter. “He won’t be dead, but he will suffer before we hand him over.”

  Tyrann smiled evenly. “As long as he’s kept alive.”

  Chapter Sixty-two

  After several weeks of rigorous training, Caen felt confident that Dawn was a squire capable of using a sword effectively in self-defense. Her back had healed and all of her training had built up the muscles in her arms and legs. During this time, Sarey kept Dawn’s hair cut to keep her appear more boyish. Oddly, her hair was slowly turning blonde like her mother’s.

  Seated at a table inside a tavern in Ironwood, Dawn picked at her food while she waited for Caen to return. Due to the partial Vyking occupation of Ironwood, he had resumed wearing the Vyking armor.

  Caen slid into the seat across from her. When she met his gaze, she couldn’t hide her relief to see him safe and unharmed. A smile came to her lips.

  “Good news,” he said. “I bought you a horse.”

  “What?”

  He nodded.

  Surprise widened her eyes. “I told you that—”

  “I understand what you said, but to be honest, you being on foot has slowed us down far too long. Besides, you’ve trained hard and proven to me how much you desire to become a knight. And, the number of Vykings has increased in many of the smaller towns. We must find more Dragon Knights.”

  “What about the man we passed a few weeks back?”

  “The one with the elf, dwarf, and Vyking?”

  Dawn nodded. “He wore the Dragon Knight armor.”

  “He did, but he’s not one of us. He’s an imposter.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Trust me. I’d recognize any true Dragon Skull Knight. There weren’t that many of us.”

  Dawn’s eyes wandered as she thought. “Then how did he come to possess the armor?”

  “Probably in the same manner I came to possess the Vyking armor I’m wearing now.”

  “You think he killed him? You could have asked or challenged him, especially if he had killed one of the Order.”

  Caen laughed. “Sometimes, squire, you have to weigh the odds. They were ready to draw their weapons. I didn’t see a point in either of us dying or me killing some of them over someone’s armor. Who knows? He might have found the knight dead and took the armor for himself. It’s not uncommon for warriors to take from the dead in the battlefield.”

  “Don’t you find it insulting for an imposter to be wearing the Dragon Knight armor?”

  “I might view it that way, but consider this. By wearing it, he jeopardizes his own life since the Vykings are searching for anyone wearing the armor.”

  “True. But he also wore a silver dragon pendant like yours.”

  “I don’t question that the armor had belonged to one of my chosen brethren. But armor is just armor. Dignity and chivalry are what sets the standards for a knight. Not the armor. As I understand it, Waxxon has one of the most stunning sets of armor of anyone, but it certainly doesn’t represent the tarnished soul he is inside.”

  Dawn’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Waxxon’s name. Her jaw tightened. Her hands formed into fists as she set them upon the table. “Yes. Nothing is truer than that. He’s a vile man, not worthy of leadership. Certainly not a man of loyalty and unity like a wolf represents.”

  “A wolf? So you’ve seen his helm?”

  She nodded.

  “When?” His eyes suspiciously studied hers.

  “He was never a stranger to the stables.”

  Caen looked away.

  Dawn bit into a stewed turnip and cringed at the texture and taste. She set down her fork. She thought about the man wearing the Dragon Knight armor, but her true curiosity was with the faery hidden in his vest pocket. Caen must not have seen her because he never mentioned the faery. Dawn had seen her, but only for a moment. Why was the faery with him?

  A barmaid brought Caen a tankard of ale. He nodded and turned it up. A lute player strummed a melody while a fat bard attempted to sing a tale. Neither were that good, and most of the patrons ignored them except for those who threw soggy turnips at them.

  “Not sure if it’s rumor or the truth,” Caen said, “but I got word about two Dragon Skull Knights being seen near Glasslyn Lake.”

  “If true, that’s great news.”

  Caen nodded. “After we eat and you see your horse, we’re heading there to investigate.”

  “But it’s almost dark.”

  “I understand. But Ironwood is now under curfew after sundown. We can set camp in the woods near the lake. That way we don’t have to worry about guards telling us when we can leave.”

  “Okay. I’m sure the sounds of insects singing is much better than this,” she said, pointing her thumb in the direction of the bard and lute player.

  Caen chuckled. “Their act is all part of this tavern’s business.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “The singing and playing is so bad it makes people drink more, and once they’re drunk, the entertainment sounds better. You’d have to be drunk to enjoy it.”

  Dawn laughed until tears etched at the corners of her eyes.

  ***

  The mare Caen bought was a sorrel. Dawn immediately fell in love with the horse. She missed her horse, Keela, but this one seemed more special since it was a gift from her knight.

  Seeing the excitement in Dawn’s eyes, Caen asked, “You still wish to travel on foot?”

  “Not at all. I still have blisters from our journey here.”

  Caen suspiciously glanced both directions on the cobblestone street. She guessed he was looking for guards, but no
ne were visibly present. Several commoners causally walked past while the vendors boarded up their shops. No one seemed alarmed. Night was coming. The streets were already falling beneath the shadow of dust.

  Dawn swung upon the saddle of the horse without giving it a second of thought.

  “You’ve ridden before?” Caen asked, swinging upon Baymont.

  “Just when . . . Balo was away.”

  “I see. Seems like it’s more natural for you than from an occasional whim.”

  “Is riding really that difficult, that you’d think a peasant isn’t capable of riding a horse?”

  Caen grinned. “I suppose not.”

  “Then shall I lead the way?”

  He rode up beside her mare and shook his head. “Until we get out of Ironwood, I think it best that you follow me. Just in case we run into any kind of problems with the guards.”

  “Okay.”

  Caen gently nudged the stallion’s flank. The horse walked slowly. Dawn followed. The horrendous melody of the tavern bard and lute player slowly faded into silence the farther they rode. With the possible threat of Vykings or overzealous guards, she had practically tuned them out anyway. She was glad, however, that the tavern was situated almost directly inside the city wall, so exiting Ironwood was quick.

  The guards at the gate didn’t stop them from leaving. She couldn’t tell if it was due to Caen wearing Vyking’s armor or not. They seemed disengaged, almost agitated that they had to be there. Maybe it was the acting curfew that had them upset because without it, they might not have to be on duty. She didn’t know.

  The cobblestone abruptly stopped right outside the city wall. The path became compacted reddish brown soil. The large towering trees on the outskirts of Ironwood were sporadic. Many of the trees had been cut down with only massive moss-covered stumps remaining. Caen left the road, then headed directly south and cut into a northeastern direction through the forest.

  “Where are we going?” Dawn asked.

  “To Icethaw River.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it flows into Glasslyn Lake. No actual road leads to the lake.”