by E. Molloy
The Mentalists: First Quest
by E. Molloy
“Oath of the White Knight”
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
“Oath of the White Knight”
The shield is not shelter, but righteous weapon. I will wield it in battle as I would axe or sword.
The shield is power, a vessel for my strength to rend opponents helpless. I will stand fast against all who oppose me.
The shield is a symbol, connecting my brothers. I will hold fast to my family, and the weapons that preserve us.
The shield is life, and without it I am nothing. Only in death will I part from it.
The shield is glory, honor in the face of peril. I will hold fast to my oath, and in this promote justice.
Chapter 1
Hard steel clashed as armored men around cheered like a roaring chorus of lions, thirsty for the blood of the fallen. A knight in suit of flawless white with a shield bearing an emboldened image of feathery wings fought viciously to bring down a bulkier man in dark grey armor, donning a blue emblem of a dragon. The large man's weapon was a mace, wielded with two hands, its tip ridged with brutal blades that were rigid from use. Sparks lit up the impact zones as metal hit metal in the cool night where two men fought ferociously. They put all of their intent into each attack. The knight in white successfully blocked all of the larger combatant’s attacks, and each time the crowd roared with excitement. Dust flew up from the arena ground with each quick motion as the men battled.
Daveth watched from the stables, a young man of average height and thin build with matted brown hair and a pale complexion. His brown eyes fixed on the scene; he was mesmerized by the combat unfolding before him. This was, he knew, the closest he would ever get to being a white knight: daydreaming from the sidelines as he shoveled horse manure. He had applied to join the Order every year since his seventeenth birthday. While teens from noble bloodlines and the sons of warriors’ applications were moved to the top of the list, the orphan’s upbringing in Haven likely didn’t do much to impress the Order. That wouldn't stop him from trying for his sixth year next month, but his hopes of actually being accepted were all but non-existent. They didn't take in new recruits as old as he was now, anyway.
Every time the steel clashed, though, his hopes were slightly renewed, rejuvenated by the excitement of battle. The arena was a display of power, a symbolic ceremony that pitted the best of warriors all around the world to fight and earn their place in the land. The winning team of the tournament would then become the designated Protectors, a title that essentially granted them the freedom to go anywhere and do anything, including speak directly with the Kings of the nations. The Protectors knew no law but their own, and were supposed to be the most just men in all the land. The White Knights had never lost a tournament, their skill and training far surpassing that of any other troop. There had been those who had come close to beating them, but even then it was only one or two matches. They had served as the Protectors of the land for as long as anyone could remember, and the tournaments by now had become little more than ceremonies, a tradition long since passed down to honor the might and power of the Protectors of the land.
These kinds of fights were not what Daveth looked forward to. It was the justice he sought, the ability to set things right all over the world, to save damsels in distress and fend off evildoers with the power of good. Having been orphaned as an infant, Daveth was raised in the Haven just south of where the Order trained their Knights. It was there that he first saw a knight, and where his dream to become one began. A dream that, so far, had gained him the title of Stable Boy at the Arena where they fought once a year, and the rest of the year he spent cleaning up after the horses and being all but invisible to the rest of the world.
The crowd roared suddenly, and Daveth snapped out of the daze he hadn't even realized that he was in. The larger combatant in gray had lodged his weapon into the Knight's shield, and with a pull that looked to have taken all of his weight to complete, the shield came free from the Knight's grasp with a sickening cracking sound. Daveth's breath caught as he watched the metal loops on the back of the shield that braced it to the Knight's arm fall to the ground, and the Knight stumbled back. His left arm was limp at his side, and beneath the roar of the crowd Daveth could hear the Knight's pained shout. The grey-suited warrior tried to pull the shield off of his mace, but, realizing it was stuck, tossed the hybrid-weapon to the ground. The Knight charged him with his free hand, long sword gripped tightly and taking advantage of the opening. His opponent had no recourse, and was too big to dodge, as the blade stabbed through his torso.
Again, the crowd screamed. Most of them celebrated nothing but the joy of bloodshed, and the others cheered yet another win for the White Knights. Just as Daveth raised his hands to clap, he spotted something in the arena that didn't belong. A small dark figure, clad in a black cloak and barely even noticeable, stood behind the larger man. Daveth was frozen, wondering what was going on, but the crowd didn't even seem to notice.
"Hey, get out of there! You're going to get hurt!" Daveth yelled, but the cheers around him drowned out the sound of his voice. Despite the fact that even he couldn't hear his own shouting, the figure turned its cloaked head in his direction. He couldn't make out its features, but he knew it was looking at him. It lifted a feminine hand, covered in dark lines, to where its lips were shrouded in shadow, as if telling him to hush, and then disappeared.
The moment it disappeared, a collective gasp sounded in the crowd. The fighter in grey, with newfound strength, kicked into the Knight's chest, sending him falling to his back. He removed the sword from his stomach, blood pouring from his guts and painting the arena floor red, and tossed it to the dirt. Kneeling to grab the hilt of the weapon he had dropped earlier, the man in gray strained for a moment before lifting it with uncharacteristic strength for a man who was presently bleeding out. In one swift swing, he brought the shield-edged mace over his head and sent it crashing into the Knight's torso. The impact of the blow crushed the white armor, a horrible combination of man, shield, and 4-foot handle all merged into one. For the first time, the crowd was silent. Daveth still hadn't taken a breath. The large man released the hilt of his hybrid weapon, stumbling back as he pulled his helmet off. He looked around the arena, confusion creasing his features. The crowd's victory cheers rose yet again, but the man left standing in the ring didn't seem to notice.
A hard slap made contact with the back of Daveth's head, and as a sharp breath escaped him he realized that he had been holding his breath still. Turning, he saw the stable-master's wrinkly face even more creased than usual as he scowled up at the young man.
"Git yer shit 'n move, boy, th'next round's comin'. I don' pay ya ta watch. Them fights is fer rich folks n' men with more time 'n us."
"Yes, sir," Daveth said, his voice shaking. He glanced over his shoulder to the arena once more just in time to watch the large man in grey fall to the sand dead next to his defeated opponent. To the judges, it would still count as a win
for his team. It was the first fight that the Knights had been in for tonight's tournament, and they had already lost. It shouldn't have been a loss, though. Someone, something, had interfered.
Daveth hurried off to his duties with the solid intent to sneak away to watch again the first chance he got.
As the evening's events wore on, Daveth managed to sneak back out to see glimpses of each of the fights. While the Knights had maintained first place, there were 3 other teams that were only one point behind them by the time the last round had come. If the Knights lost a single fight, their position would be forfeit unless a Champion could step in to redeem their honor. Though the Knights had never been at risk for losing their title, the arena's rules stated that the reigning champions of any tournament held, when faced with losing their title, would have once chance to call in someone who was not of their order to redeem their name. If the Champion lost their fight, the losing team would be unable to compete in the next year's tournament and would lose the title they once held. If they won, however, the reigning team would keep their title, but the other team would be able to challenge that title at any time within the next year, and the elected Champion would be forced to fight alongside the defending team. As far as Daveth knew, no team came prepared with a Champion. Since the title had always belonged to the Knights, they would have been the only ones who had use for one, yet they had never come even remotely close to losing their title.
By the time the last fight of the night was about to begin, Daveth's stable-work was already done. The horses had been tended to, and they were long past the portion of the evening where the horses would lead their combatants into battle. The final rounds of the tournament were man and steel and nothing else, and the only work for the stable-hand to do at this point was to ready the steeds of whomever was left standing to take their leave.
The crowd roared as the two final combatants took their stage in the center of the blood-coated arena. An announcer on horseback ran rounds before the crowd, shouting out the name of the fighters to anyone watching that didn't already know. Two giants took the field, men standing nearly seven feet tall and both in the finest detailed armor. On the one side stood a glimmering white knight, wielding a long sword in one hand and a feathery-winged shield in the other. His opponent, dressed in all black, bore the same weaponry, shield donning an image of a dragon spitting flames of black into a dark sun.
Neither man waited for the horn to blow before the fight began. The two charged each other from opposite sides of the oval ring, and, just before they met, time seemed to slow. Daveth felt strange, dizzy almost, as he watched them near each other in painfully slow motion. He closed his eyes, shaking his head to try and relieve the discomfort. When he looked again to the scene, he saw behind the white knight the shadowy figure from before. His own voice was lost to him this time as the figure raised its arms, the two fighters now completely frozen in time. Again, the robes fell back from its hands, revealing what he could see more clearly now were black runes etched in the dark skin of the feminine arms that reached from beneath the cloth. The marked hands reached up toward the knight's head as the combatant stood frozen in time, and Daveth knew for certain now that it was sabotage.
Though he was still finding it hard to breathe, his own determination forced the sounds out of his mouth. "Stop," he tried to yell, but it came out as only a whisper. The sounds of the cheering in the crowd, with time stopped, were but a loud hum of a single note that greatly overpowered his voice. Yet, somehow, the figure's cloaked head turned to look at him as he protested quietly.
Time resumed very suddenly, and the moment it did the silhouetted being was gone. The loud hum of the crowd had resumed its chaotic uproar, and Daveth was able to breathe properly again. The knight, it seemed, was the only thing that didn't return to normal. His headlong charge quickly turned to a clumsy stumble as he swerved on his feet. The fighter in black noticed the moment of weakness and lowered his shield as soon as he got into melee range, replacing it with his blade that slid through the knight's chest like a knife through warm butter. Again, the crowd fell to near silence, and again it felt as though time had stopped. It hadn't, this time, but both fighters stood in the same position, the dark knight holding the white upon his sword as if waiting for reality to return. The crowd’s silence as they tried to wrap their heads around what had just happened was deafening.
There was no cheer for the knight's loss. The black-clad fighter kicked his opponent off of his sword in utter disappointment, throwing his own weapons to the ground in a display of what to Daveth looked like a hissy fit. He had wanted an epic battle. Everyone had. For him, there was no glory in a fight so easily won. For everyone else, there was the sudden realization that it was becoming more and more likely that there would be a new army of protectors in the world. If that alone were not a terrifying concept, the contrast was stark. There was an undeniable symbolism in losing the angelic white knights as protectors for a band of men who seemed purposed to embody the concept of darkness.
As the victor moved to leave the field, Daveth could contain it no longer. "Cheater!" he yelled. His voice carried, no roaring crowd to compete with this time, and the man his words were directed toward turned abruptly. He was very obviously still looking for a fight. As the fighter's helmet turned toward the stable-boy, Daveth felt himself shrink. The murmuring around him grew louder, and another voice came from up in the stands. "Filthy cheat!" a woman's voice growled to the man, and another chimed in, "Yeah, y'filthy cheat, let's see how you die in a real fight!"
In only a few moments, the crowd was in an uproar again, this time angrily protesting, throwing their drinks and food onto the field at the victor of the fight. For a moment, the man turned his head up to the crowd, but it was not long before his gaze fixed back on Daveth. The man removed his helmet, revealing a dark-skinned man with long black hair and beard with knotted braids, both getting lost in the color of his armor as they fell from the helmet. He grinned at the stable-boy, and then threw his helmet to the ground, raising his hands in the air to the crowd.
"Bring out your champion!" he roared, thunderous voice overpowering the discontent of his onlookers. "Bring me a real fight, if the knights have not grown weak in their spoils!"
All waited for the champion to come out, but none came. After a few minutes of waiting, the man in the center laughed.
"Did you not think it possible to lose, you overconfident pheasants?" he taunted, presumably to the knights. "Or are you too cowardly to send another out to fight me, after I felled your last in a single blow?"
A gate opened to the arena, and a squire in all black ran across the bloody field quickly to his master. He said something to him, and the man shook his head, slapping the boy upside the head before waving back toward the gate he'd come in from. The boy ran off quickly, and the fighter knelt to lift his helmet. The crowd had fallen to silence again, and Daveth found himself fearing the worst: the Knights had no Champion to defend their honor.
"Fools," the man in black snapped. Again, the gate opened, and through it came one of the announcers on horseback. He rode up to the fighter with what was obviously a forced smile, and yelled as loud as he could. His voice covered the silent room, as reality sunk in for the people who watched.
"The knights have elected no Champion, and request one of their own be allowed to take the field."
Daveth's eyes went to the judge's stand, and he saw the five there speak amongst themselves for a time. All hands raised, balled into fists, and turned their thumbs downward.
The announcer seemed nervous at this point, and cleared his throat, speaking again, "In that case, they have requested that anyone brave enough from the crowd be allowed to defend their honor and fight as Champion."
The crowd murmured, and again the judges spoke amongst themselves. They considered this for longer, this time, and raised their fists into the air. Each thumb pointed upward, and the announcer began his speech.
"Never before," he started dramatica
lly, "have the people of Alffa been given the chance to pay back the service that the white knights have done them. Never before has their title been threatened, and they call upon you now, citizens, to fight in their honor! Who among you is brave enough? Who among you is willing to sacrifice in order to maintain the peace we have held for so long?"
The crowd, in the excitement, roared their cheers, waiting for someone, anyone, to take up the field. After a few minutes of the excitement, though, still nobody had come. Across the field, in the stands on the opposite side of him, Daveth saw a man begin to make his way down. Before the man made it all the way down the steps, though, he fell on himself. To anyone else, he may have seemed drunk, but Daveth could have sworn that a shadow lingered behind him even after he'd fallen.
Chapter 2
When nobody came, the announcer shifted on his horse uncomfortably. In the judge's booth, they signaled to him to call it. "It seems there is none brave enough to take a stand. As such I must call it, the Order of-"
"Wait!" Daveth shouted from the stables, climbing over the wooden barrier. His ascent had been swift, but he fell to the sand on the other side of the fencing. Scrambling to his feet, Daveth stood breathlessly in the arena, dirty knees and hands now also covered in sand. He had always dreamed of being here, of fighting for the knights, but then that dream also consisted of him having some sort of training, protection, or a weapon. The boy was dressed in nothing but rags tied together at the waist with a bit of rope, and the closest thing he had to a weapon was a few biting words about how he had seen the man cheat. He was not so stupid as to think anyone would believe him. To be honest, he barely believed it himself.
The look in the announcer's eyes as Daveth trudged through the sand, each step sinking into the shifting ground, was hopelessness. "I...I will fight, if nobody else will," the boy said, his body and voice shaking as if shivering from the cold.
