Knights of the Dawn (Arcanum of the Dolmen Troll Book 1)

by R. J. Eveland

  Now Highcross had a bat in his ear. He tried to swat it away with laughter. “I never thought I’d see the day.” He turned back to all his men working at the gateway. “Did you hear that? The Sundown Boar is done with war! He wants to live the rest of his days in peace, like a peasant!”

  The chuckles that went up created a queasiness in Bob’s guts. He gave the men laughing in the gateway a disgusted look. “You shouldn’t laugh!” Saliva flew from his mouth. “You should all be ashamed! There’s nothing funny about war!”

  Highcross gave one last mocking chuckle. “How can you tell me you’re done with this war after King Kilwinning sent an assassin to kill your father? Black Blade killed my father, too. Everyone here knows someone he’s killed. If you walk from this war, you’ll be walking away from your father, away from your duty to avenge all those who’ve died under the will of King Kilwinning.”

  A big arming shoe stomped. Dust flew up around Bob’s legs. “No! You have it backwards, son. I’ll be walking away from Father if I join you. I’m leaving!”

  The little respect Highcross had in his voice was gone when he said, “You can’t leave, Redmand. You’re unable to. You could leave for a while, sure. But you’ll think about the war. You’ll remember what Kilwinning’s done, what Black Blade did to your father. You’ll remember that Blake Blade was captured once. He can be captured again, more easily now that he’s no longer a hero. You’ll be filled with so much hate that you’ll ride out with your armor to find him. You could have Black Blade’s blood running down your hands a fortnight from now if you really wanted. Once this headache of a siege is over, I’ll help you catch him myself. Now pick up that bloody sword and guard my men. You’ll never leave this war because it’s part of you. You’re tied down by a thousand invisible chains. Your name is forever trapped in the history of blood and ashes. Continue to make your family proud and pick up that sword, Redmand. Do it!”

  Bob looked at the sword and thought about ramming it through Highcross’ brain. Perhaps he would’ve done it if Lossex wasn’t holding his hand. She whispered into his ear, “He’s right, Bob. You’re tied to this war no matter what you do, and you’ve proved you’re not a traitor. Now you can join your men again. You can kill for them again.” An undercurrent in her voice made Highcross raise a brow.

  The lady’s fragile hand was tossed away like a poisonous spider. Bob looked the woman up and down as if for the first time, not knowing why he ever liked her. “Oink, oink, oink!” He stomped again, then grabbed his head, squeezing it and squeezing it. Everything was turning red again. All sounds were fading, becoming wonky. Bob closed his eyes. Then they flashed open and saw the sword, the bloody sword screaming for vengeance at his feet. All was reddening, turning blacker and fading. He felt someone touch him, heard wobbly nonsense splurge from her mouth. He tried to listen but it all meant nothing. It was plops and clicks and noises that spoke no logic.

  He tried to see through the growing redness, past the pulsing pain in his head. He thought he heard his name. He heard shrill squeaks, yelps and yips. Voices were rising in the distance, along with the strums of confusing instruments. A ghastly horn blew, making Bob stomp again. All was flashing red, black and white as Bob blinked off towards the side of the road, towards the furrowed fields where coppices and tamed forests teemed in the distance. He saw dancing colors, leaping harlequins and particoloured flags. He saw women with jugs on their heads and jesters with lutes in their hands. Servants sang in a long retinue behind a golden litter, raising a din of music with tambourines and drums. It was a parade of pompous feasters, singing joyfully as they skipped across the furrowed fields towards the castle.

  The red in Bob’s vision ebbed. Colors came back vividly as he observed the harlequins’ intricate motley, the small flags billowing off the side of the golden litter, the pretty ladies frolicking with flowers in their hair. The music and laughter emanating from the throng got louder by the second, blanketing the whole sky. It was a mobile celebration moving closer, a wave of merriment transgressing the fields, filling it with hue and song.

  “Finally,” Highcross said, rubbing his groaning gut, “more feasters have arrived, and it looks like they started without us.”

  All the workers by the gateway put their tools down to stand and cheer. After a day of death, it was a beautiful thing to see food and drink and women all moving in a jolly band. At a time, it would’ve been a swell sight for Bob, too. But now he just fell on his arse, still holding his head. He focused on the pulsing to quell his spiraling thoughts.

  Lossex patted his shoulder. “Everything will be fine, Bob.”

  The crunching of gravel picked up below Highcross as his legs moved to the nearing music. His gruff voice joined in, too, swaying with the rhythm of the lutes and flutes. Lossex giggled and twirled around, casting out her dress like a tornado. The golden litter reached the road. Before it and on all sides were tall banners revealing the standard of Lord Foulmouth, an ugly set of green teeth before a sky of cloudy white. The banners were dancing and swaying in the air like the skipping and twirling people beneath them.

  The only people in the approaching party that weren’t dancing were the two giants in full suits of steel marching ahead of the litter. The giants were both four feet taller than Bob and even outstood most of their following banners. Betwixt them, they wore enough steel to armor four horses.

  Highcross’ workers realized which song the minstrels were singing and joined in with their many deep voices. The song was “A King to Rule the Realm and a Queen to Rule the King.” Bawdy lyrics sprang higher than the murder of crows that soared above. Anyone in the keep would’ve been able to hear it. The music got so near and loud until it abruptly began to deaden. The colorful party of feasters reached the road only to drop their smiles in confusion. The litter was placed down twenty paces from Highcross. Servants went milling about with worried faces, whispering about all the things amiss. One harlequin couldn’t stop frowning at Highcross’ dead horse attracting flies on the side of the road. Others were just as disgusted by all the bodies and cannyn balls strewn across the place.

  The gilded flaps of the litter burst forth, revealing a robust man in green silks. He wobbled out into the sun. A grandiose green hat kept his wizened eyes in the shade. He opened his mouth at Highcross, and pointy green teeth came thrusting out with a small pink tongue. His long white beard flapped in the breeze as he accosted, “Greetings, Lord Highcross, it’s always a pleasure to see your repulsive face.” His voice was raspy and dry with an offensive drawling that made each word longer than necessary. The music around them had died by then, replaced by curious ears and eyes. The lord in green silks finished studying the castle. “Has Montese gone mad? This castle’s in no state to host a feast!” His pink tongue slithered betwixt his green teeth. He brushed his beard with a wrinkled hand, twisting his large body to look at all the corpses athwart his path. “I see you’re almost done repairing the gate. That’s good. But why haven’t you buried the bodies yet? Why haven’t you replaced Spywater’s banners? This is outrageous! I demand to see Montese! Where is he?”

  Highcross shrunk into a smaller man as he became the brunt of Lord Foulmouth’s rage. He sullenly stared at the green lord’s pointy shoes. Behind the litter, a tambourine kicked up, begging for a lute to join in. A handsome singer grabbed Lossex’ hand and asked for a dance. She giggled and followed him around the litter. Lord Foulmouth ignored the merriment, giving Highcross cold, dead eyes.

  Highcross gave a fleeting glance at Bob and cussed before he cleared his throat. “Greetings, Foulmouth. I’ll explain everything as quick and clear as I can. I arrived this morning with the lords Archester and Hickens hoping to feast just like you. We were bombarded by cannyns. Seeing the gate obliterated and our fellowmen slain, our rage found us in the bailey. We surrounded the keep and formed the viper with black bricks to breach. Now I’m back out here repairing the gate because Spywater killed over sixty new levies with fire and boiling oil. I watched Archeste
r and Hickens turn into tarry skeletons. As far as we know, Spywater did it all by himself. Redmand over there just finished explaining everything to me. Unaware of the feast, Spywater killed Montese and wore his armor to retake his castle from Lady Spywater. Of course, he killed her for betraying him. Redmand was captured. He told Spywater about the feast. That’s when Spywater sent his knights away to defend the castle on his lonesome, to see out his final days with a bang.” When there was a pause, Foulmouth nodded without expression as if unsurprised, so Highcross concluded, “I decided to keep the ground we had taken and wait for reinforcements. I was hoping you would have your sons with you or at least a stronger retinue.”

  A grin as wide as angel wings spread across Foulmouth’s face. “Do you think my sons would care to join a feast for old farts like us? I came here hoping to make new sons. This is all a shame.” He brushed his beard with dirty fingernails, shaking his head at one of Spywater’s banners. “I was hoping to fuck Lady Spywater’s teats until they purpled. She added a little note at the bottom of my invitation saying how she thought my green teeth were sexy. Oh well, I never really liked Archester and Hickens anyways. Did you know their forefathers were pardoned for rebelling in some other bygone war? That’s why they have red escutcheons on their armorial achievements, to symbolize their traitor blood. Now I’ll practice a little forbearance when I say you should’ve died with them. Like, what the fuck, Highcross? Why are you out here repairing the gate? If all you said is true, I bet Spywater’s watching from a loophole with mulled wine writing a poem about how cowardly you are.”

  “You don’t understand,” Highcross lashed back. “Spywater has that castle riddled up the arse with traps. You can go in the bailey and see the carnage yourself.”

  “How many castles have you taken, Highcross?” Foulmouth fisted his hips, grinning.

  “I, uh, um.” The lord in black maille stammered, “I haven’t …”

  “You haven’t taken any castles because you’ve been stuck defending your own for as long as you can remember.” Foulmouth waved a hand at Castle Spywater as if it were a fly. “My sons and I have taken over ten castles together. One siege lasted eight years, but we starved the fucker out with patience. Another only took a day because we built ramps and climbed into the windows. Like I said, I’m not surprised Hickens and Archester got killed. Those portly farts have never taken a castle either. They’ve spent their entire lives defending them, just like you. They don’t even know the most important rule of besieging: if you see a portal open for you to enter, like a door or a gateway or a hall, you don’t fucking go that way, son! You always create your own entry points.

  “The viper technique is good, but it’s not meant for situations like this. Of course Spywater has traps crammed up his castle’s arse. That’s what castles are for! You of all men should know that. It’s sure clear Spywater’s a hell of a lot smarter than you.” Foulmouth paused to study the guilt on Highcross’ face. That guilt seemed to amuse Foulmouth a lot. “Now I think this is more exciting than a feast, don’t you say? Now you just sit back and watch a real lord handle a siege. We’ll be feasting in that keep before sundown.”

  “We need to work together on this!” Highcross was far from amused. He brought his face up close to the green lord and hammered a fist into a palm. “Listen, Foulmouth. I found cannyns in the walls. There’s no telling if Spywater has others hidden away, perhaps aiming at us as we speak. This is no laughing matter.”

  Foulmouth swatted Highcross’ nose away and turned back towards his litter. “You’re the laughing matter, Highcross. You idiot. You see these two giants here?” Foulmouth’s old wrinkly hand looked like the hand of a child when it patted one of the steel giants on the hip. “These here are my two favorite sons, Carl and Karl. They’re only a quarter my age but they’ve seen the downfall of thrice as many castles and cities as I have. They’ve lived their entire lives in and amongst sieges. All we have to do is sit back and wait while these boys go in there and kill Spywater for good. You’ll see. I bet it’ll take less than an hour.”

  The two giants in steel were the tallest men Highcross had ever seen. He had to bend his neck back to look at their helms. Within the slits of their visors, only blackness could be seen. “You’re only going to send in two men?”

  Foulmouth laughed. “These are no ordinary men, Highcross. You wait and see. Against one man hiding in a keep, they’re a fucking army! I’ll have you know these boys deformed their own larynxes to take a castle and make me proud. Yup, it’s true. They purposely got themselves captured by my greatest rival. Upon realizing their voices didn’t work, my rival had no reason to torture them. He just locked them away in his dungeon to use as bargaining chips one day. He underestimated their strength. They used their might to bust free of their cells and took the castle from the inside with nothing but their fists. Now they’re mute masters of siege-craft. Together, they’re more valuable than a thousand siege engines, wiser in the ways of war than a hundred knights combined! They’ll saunter into that keep and no trap will take them. Not a scratch will appear upon them. They’ll root out Spywater and gut him like the fish he is.” Foulmouth took a step back to admire his sons in all their beauty. “Isn’t that right, Carl and Karl?”

  Simultaneously, the giants bowed. The lames in their armor moved silently as they set forth. Held ready in their gauntlets were halberds longer than pikes. Scabbarded at their hips swung two-handed longswords. Sunlight glimmered off their spotless white armor as they marched towards the gate. Highcross’ men shuffled out of the way to let them pass.

  “Now, will you have a drink with me, Highcross?” Foulmouth snapped his fingers and a naked servant emerged from his litter with a jug of wine. “We can begin our feast afield for now. What do you say? The weather’s nice enough for it. We’re too old to let a pest like Spywater spoil our fun. Here, the wine’s delicious. There’s some for Redmand, too. Let your men have a break.” A slimy tongue wriggled out from behind green teeth to slurp up some dark purple drink. Somehow, it still looked delicious. Foulmouth chortled when Highcross snatched the jug away and quaffed a bit. “Slow down, Highcross. Try to taste it. Remember, we drink to victory, not defeat. We drink to King Spiderwell’s return from the dead, to his glorious victory at Wittinberry!”

  Highcross wiped his mouth as the music and dancing resumed. Even Bob had calmed enough to move his body to the flutes a little, still squatting on the dirt like a baby. For some reason, however, Highcross had no desire to dance, let alone smile. His drinking didn’t feel like drinking to victory. His had been of misery and doubt. He looked back at the steel giants passing his workers and cursed the dirt below their feet. He turned back to the music, drinking from the jug. Foulmouth was already back in his litter with the flaps tied back, cuddling some drunken strumpets and eating cake like there wasn’t a care in the world.

  CHAPTER TEN: THE FISH

  FARAWAY LAUGHTER AND music muffled the crunching of bones under hobnails. The massive strides of Carl and Karl took their sabatons stomping over the black, crispy bodies before the keep. They walked in unison, eyes raised high to where banners once hung. They stopped before the burnt doors and peered inside. Their eyes beheld pleasant tapestries and elaborate stonework, the victims of traps sprawled on the floor, the long, wide cloak of Lord Spywater. The twins stiffened for a moment, listening to wind whistle through the breaths of their helms. They looked at each other, then looked back at the blue lord.

  Spywater had his sugarloaf helm under one arm. His other hand held a green apple. He took a bite and chewed slowly. After tossing the apple away, he donned his helm and withdrew a longsword with a flourish. “Who’s first?”

  The steel twins faced each other again. No words were spoken but they shrugged. They looked back towards the gate where only a few men were still working. All the others had joined the party on the road for a break. The giants were the only ones who knew Spywater was there on ground level, vulnerable to attack. He stood in the center of the hall, h
olding his sword in a low guard.

  Carl decided he would be the lord’s first opponent. He ducked under the archway and entered the keep. After placing down his halberd, he unsheathed his sword and slowly stepped forward. The opponents’ swords were the same length, albeit Carl only held his with one hand. The hall was cavernous and decorated, the perfect place to duel. Karl stepped in and leaned his back against the wall to watch the fighters choose their stances. Spywater touched his sword to Carl’s and the fight began.

  The steel giant was nearly twice as tall as Spywater. He stooped when he stepped in range to swing his blade. Spywater stopped the swing with his flat, grunting as his arms absorbed the force. It was a tough blow to stop but the blue lord kept his stance, his helm reflecting sparks jouncing on the floor.

  Carl rewinded his sword to make room for a remise, feeling it wobble in his hand. Watching Carl’s sword lift away, Spywater held his own like a spear. While ducking under the remise, Spywater made a ferocious thrust. The thrust’s impact sounded like tattered maille dragging across gravel. Spywater’s sword had enough drive to knife through Carl’s maille skirt, his maille braguette, some layers of linen underneath, and lastly through the massive testicles of a giant.

  The mute monster grew taller from the pain and looked nether to see his tiny children bleed away. No scream escaped his mouth, but one could feel his agony in the air, from the way his body lurched. Spywater immediately withdrew his bloody sword and danced back, grinning under his visor where no one could see.

  Carl looked back to Karl. They shared a silent understanding, a silent hatred, a combined will to kill this pathetic freak who dared to outskill them. Blood swam down Carl’s chausses and he had a horrible limp, but he stepped forward to advance nonetheless, with Karl now at his side.

  Spywater bantered, “So it’s two against one now, eh? Do all of Foulmouth’s sons have green livers?” He would’ve laughed at them, but the blue lord never laughed. “Come get me!” He still knew how to laugh in his head.