“I’m drunk!” he mumbled.
Dallsa’s expression darkened. “Oh, I see.”
Aldreya glanced at Lannon. “It must be Greeule Milk. Yes, you should slow down a bit on drinking it. It is very potent.”
“I had no idea,” said Lannon, irritated that the Blue Knight had duped him into doing something he had sworn never to do. He reached for the goblet to push it away and knocked it over, spilling it into Dallsa’s lap.
With a disgusted sigh, Dallsa moved to another table.
Lannon shook his head helplessly, then took to gazing at Aldreya again. He regretted offending Dallsa, but he could barely keep his eyes off the radiant Birlote girl. In the back of his mind, he knew he was ignoring the Sacred Laws by taking such an interest in her, but his gaze seemed hopelessly locked in place.
Aldreya smiled at him. “You will sleep well this night. Had I known what was in your goblet, I would have warned you.”
“Thank you,” he said, though his words seemed meaningless. “Your hair is amazing. I’ve never said this before, but the silver curls…”
She didn’t respond, but her fiery green eyes drew him in. He could glimpse the depths of her power shining in her gaze—not just the power of sorcery, but the natural energy that all Birlotes possessed. He wanted to touch her hair, but his Knightly training was too strong to allow it even under these circumstances. Or was it? He found himself leaning closer to her until his lips were inches away from hers. Hopelessly lost to her spell, he gave in and attempted to kiss her.
“Lannon!” The sharp tone broke the spell.
Startled, Lannon leaned back swiftly and nearly tipped his chair over. Aldreya was gazing at him sternly. “Control yourself.”
He bowed. “Of course. For a moment I…lost myself.”
She nodded. “For a moment, you did.” He glimpsed an amused twinkle in her eyes, but couldn’t make sense of it. Was she toying with him?
Aldreya focused on the bard again, while Lannon sat pondering how to regain control. The High Watchman of Ollanhar was acting like a drunken fool, and that was unacceptable.
Aldreya pushed a platter of bread and cheese toward him. “Eat. It will help you overcome the milk.”
Lannon wasn’t hungry, but he did as she instructed.
Meanwhile, the bard told stories of legendary battles against the realm of Tharnin:
“The giant known as Winilwero the Proud stalked the hills, valleys, and forests for more than one-hundred years, slaying Divine Knights and bringing chaos to the land. He boasted of his immortality, and time and again some of the greatest Knights were slain by his mighty hammer or crushed in his arms.
“Winilwero brought the storms with him wherever he roamed—the fog and the rain, the wind and the lightning. The storm itself was a great beast of Tharnin, always hovering above him and darkening the land with shadow. The giant won many great victories, and at last in his arrogance he sought to topple Dremlock Kingdom.
“Raising an army of Blood Legion warriors and Goblins, Winilwero the Proud lay siege to the mountain with the intent to rip down our gates by brute force. Yet there he was met by Quintalus Redlance, the legendary Lord Knight of Dremlock, and the two fought a duel for the fate of our kingdom.
“Blow after blow was struck, but the divine armor of our Lord Knight did not give way, and at last his burning sword pierced the giant’s heart. Winilwero was found to not be immortal after all, as he could not stop the bleeding and bled his life away for hours until death finally claimed him.
“The giant’s body was burned to ash—a process that took days—and his huge hammer and armor are still displayed in the Hall of Battles, which is only opened once every seven years…”
Lannon yawned, grateful there were no giants as powerful as Winilwero the Proud in his day and age (at least none he had encountered yet). He forced some more food down, striving to free his mind of the milk-induced fog. He didn’t like the feeling of being enslaved by his choice of drink and was concerned he might say or do something that would damage his reputation. However, no one was paying much attention to him with all the merrymaking going on.
The Festival of Souls continued into the night, as a few more warriors took to snoring for the evening—victims of too much wine and ale. Furlus Goblincrusher ordered a new weapon rolled forth—a mighty crossbow that fired ten spear-length arrows at once and could be rapidly reloaded. It was a fantastic Dwarven invention that gleamed menacingly in the light of the bonfire, the huge arrows ready to launch with the pull of a lever.
“I call this the Dragon Claw,” said Furlus, standing before the weapon. “It is made almost entirely of steel and yet, in spite of that, is amazingly light thanks to its slender design.” He traced his fingers over the narrow beams. “It cannot be easily burned or broken. The arrows can pierce multiple foes at once, doing tremendous damage. Let Bellis fear this weapon!”
The crowd roared in approval. They wanted a demonstration, but with no suitable target on hand, Furlus declined.
“I challenge it,” said Daledus, leaping up and knocking over his chair in the process. The Dwarf waved his ale mug toward the siege engine. “If this weapon is so mighty, why does it fire the arrows in such a tight bunch? Enemies could easily evade the volley. It lacks accuracy and is therefore unworthy of battle—unless the foe is a single large target. Perhaps it would work against a troll.”
Furlus’ eyes blazed. “The arrows can be adjusted so they spread out.” He demonstrated by turning a crank, and the ten arrows separated a bit. “And furthermore,” he roared, “they can be made to fire all at once or one at a time. And this crossbow is incredibly accurate. Many tests on oak barrels have proven that. So is your challenge answered?”
Daledus bowed and said: “Indeed. The Olrogs once again triumph by inventing something even Bellis will envy. We make the greatest weapons and armor, and we are the strongest!”
Galvia raised her war hammer. “We always win the test of strength at the Festival of Souls!”
Aldreya looked amused. “Of course you do, with Furlus competing.”
“Yet I will not compete this time,” said Furlus. The crowd booed. “I leave it to you younger warriors to prove yourselves.”
Daledus flexed his arms. “Then I have already won.”
Jerret rose and strode over to the stocky Dwarf, gazing down at him. “Is that so? He flexed his own muscle-laden arms. “I think not.”
Daledus laughed. “No Norack can beat a Dwarf in a test of strength. It has never been done. You’ve got some meat on your arms—I’ll give you that. But with that weak Norack blood in your veins, surely you will falter.”
Some of the other Knights who felt they had a chance rose and made their boasts. But Aldreya waved at them dismissively.
“Can any of you defeat Lannon?” she asked, smiling. “Our High Watchman may wish to show his strength.”
Lannon shook his head, wanting no part of it. Such competitions did not appeal to him. He had no interest in proving himself.
Daledus frowned. “We all know Lannon cannot be easily defeated in a test of sorcery. But his strength is granted by the Divine Essence. This is a test of raw muscle—no sorcery allowed.”
“Just pure strength,” said Jerret, nodding. “Perfect.”
“Daledus is correct,” said Furlus. “Any use of sorcery is cheating. This must be done by pure mental focus and physical might.”
“Then bring forth the weights,” said Daledus.
A number of heavy, rectangular iron blocks with rings welded to them were laid in the clearing, ranging widely in weight. The Knights gathered around—some of whom had come from Dremlock specifically for this competition—and they started with the lightest weights. With each attempt, a pair of rings was seized and a block lifted overhead. If a Knight failed to make the lift and allowed the block to touch the ground, that Knight was disqualified. Faces were crimson with strain as the warriors fought to push the weights overhead. Some of the Knights faltered, their arms
shaking as weights dropped to the earth. Some fought valiantly to keep the weights above ground, bending and twisting their bodies beneath, but they were unable to make the lift and inevitably had to surrender.
Two of the women—Bekka and Galvia—outlasted some of the men to enormous cheers from the crowd, until they too were at last eliminated. Soon only a handful of the strongest Knights remained, including Jerret and Daledus. Vorden—who possessed unnatural strength and who was possibly still afflicted with a serious injury—was forced to stay out of the competition.
As the weights grew heavier, more Knights faltered—until at last only Jerret and Daledus remained. The two made absurd boasts and stared each other down, as the crowd laughed and cheered.
“Not bad for a beardless weakling,” said Daledus. “But surely you cannot go on. Perhaps you should quit before you injure yourself. I don’t want you crying on me because you strained your back.” He held his lower back and paced about like he was in agony, as the Knights roared laughter.
Jerret grinned and stroked the stubble on his chin to show that he did indeed possess a beard. “Getting longer by the day.”
Daledus waved him away. “The face of a baby.”
“Keep talking,” said Jerret, shaking his head in amusement. “If the rest of your body is as tireless as your jaws, perhaps I will indeed be defeated.”
The Knights again roared laughter.
With a grunt, Daledus lifted a weight that could have equaled four large Knights. His teeth clenched in strain, he heaved the huge piece of iron overhead—using his short body as an advantage. He paused, eyes on Aldreya. She signaled that it was a good lift, and he dropped the weight and stepped back, staggering.
“Alas,” he panted, “you are finished! And I’m not even sober!”
“I’ve had my share of ale,” said Jerret, as he seized the weight. With a ferocious effort, he managed to heave it overhead.
Only one weight remained—the heaviest of all that only a few elite Knights had ever lifted. As Daledus made the attempt, his body nearly buckled from the strain, but somehow he put forth a superhuman effort and made the lift. As the weight thudded to the ground, Daledus fell silent, his chest heaving. There was no need for boasting now. He had proven himself.
Jerret studied the weight, his eyes fierce with focus. If he could lift it and earn a tie, the winner would be decided in a wrestling match—and Jerret was extremely skilled at wrestling.
He seized the weight and put forth a colossal effort, and for a moment it looked as if he could not fail. But then unexpectedly his shaking body sagged beneath the massive strain. He held on valiantly for a moment, refusing to surrender—his face crimson and his neck muscles bulging. But he had nothing left. He let the weight drop in disgust.
Daledus watched him somberly, holding off on celebrating as he waited to see how Jerret would react.
Jerret’s face darkened and his hands knotted into fists. He wasn’t used to defeat. No one spoke, and tension filled the air. Then his expression softened into a grin. “I guess I do need a longer beard after all!” He grabbed Daledus’ arm and raised it. “The strongest Knight of all, Daledus Oakfist!”
The crowd roared in approval.
But Daledus shook his head. “I reject that title—as long as I have yet to test myself against Furlus Goblincrusher.”
Furlus waved him away. “Nonsense. You have proven yourself, and should enjoy your evening. Have some more ale.”
Daledus’ face was grim. “Knowing I haven’t defeated you, I cannot celebrate. There will be no joy for me.”
Furlus sneered and leaned forward, his massive arms bulging beneath his green tunic. “You should have that ale, before things turn sour for you. You did well with the weights. You’ve earned the right to…talk.”
“Yet it is just talk, as you say,” said Daledus. “What value is there in talk? I want to defeat Furlus Goblincrusher in a test of strength.”
The crowd agreed with Daledus.
Furlus pushed aside his ale mug and rose, smoothing out his huge beard. “So, I must play the role of the spoiler this night—and a put a champion in his place. If that’s how it must be. Who am I to refuse a good challenge?”
“I will squeeze you like a bear!” growled Daledus. “No one has ever broken my grasp! It cannot be done!”
Furlus strode over to Daledus and turned his back on him. “Then squeeze, young bear. Show Furlus Goblincrusher that he is an old fool who has grown weak. Shame me in front of my Knights!”
“I will shame you!” Daledus bellowed, seizing him from behind.
They roared and grunted, twisting about, and for a moment it looked as if Daledus might claim victory. But Furlus at last broke free and, in a swift spin move, turned the tables on Daledus, snaring him in a hold of his own from behind. Now it was Daledus who sought to break free.
“I warned you!” Furlus growled, his arms locked in place.
As they staggered from strain (and the effects of hours of ale drinking), Daledus got too close to the bonfire. The Knights yelled a warning but it was too late. Daledus’ beard caught fire.
Furlus yanked him away from the flames and released him. The Knights quickly doused his beard with water, but the damage had been done.
Half of Daledus’ beard was burned off.
Daledus clutched what remained of his beard in horror. Then, his face reddened with humiliation, he fled into the shadows.
Furlus smiled. “A lesson learned the hard way.”
Next, the crowd wanted a display of power from Lannon that would truly mark the beginning of the Festival of Souls—as the High Watchman had done at the celebration in ancient times. Lannon was still trying to clear his mind from the Greeule Milk, but the crowd was so insistent that at last he rose and bowed.
“I’ll do my best,” he promised them.
Lannon considered his options, then approached the bonfire. Shielding his body with the Eye of Divinity, he reached into the flames and pulled out a piece of smoldering wood. He held forth the mass of crimson coals, focusing his power into his hand to keep his flesh from burning.
The crowd cheered.
“Behold!” said Furlus. “Only a Knight truly blessed by the Divine Essence can touch the fire and not be burned. We will hold a moment of silence in honor of our god, and then Aldreya will begin the honoring of the dead.”
Everyone sat with heads bowed for a time, and then Aldreya rose and threw something into the fire. The flames turned green and white, and small glowing orbs like ghostly lights emerged to float about the clearing.
***
The Festival of Souls went on past midnight.
At some point, Aldreya roused Lannon from a light slumber by squeezing his shoulder. He gazed at her questioningly.
“What’s going on?” he asked. The serious expression on Aldreya’s face startled him. The Knights who remained were asleep at the tables, and the bonfire had returned to its natural color and had died down some. A warm breeze blew through the clearing beneath the stars.
“It is time to leave,” she whispered. “Furlus and I had planned it so we would depart in the dead of night. Our goal is keep Bellis from knowing that the White Flamestone is leaving Silverland.”
“But Bellis will eventually learn the truth,” Lannon pointed out. “King Verlamer has spies everywhere—even inside Dremlock.”
“Yes,” she said. “But hopefully we will be deep into our journey by then. Our supplies have already been gathered at the stable.”
Lannon yawned, feeling a bit weary for travel. He was annoyed that he had been kept in the dark. Didn’t the High Watchman deserve better? “I would have preferred to know. I didn’t have time to prepare.”
“I apologize,” said Aldreya. “It was my decision, and Furlus did not agree with it. I wanted absolute secrecy and was afraid you might accidentally reveal our plans. The truth is, Lannon, sometimes you are not as careful about guarding secrets as you should be.”
It was true. Lannon wasn
’t fond of hiding things from his trusted friends, whereas it didn’t seem to bother Aldreya at all.
“If you’re ready, we should depart,” she said. “Everyone else is at the stable, waiting for us. I allowed you to sleep as long as I could, but the night will soon give way to dawn. Is there anything you require from the tower?”
Lannon considered it, then shook his head. He had everything he needed—his Birlote cloak and his weapons. “I’m ready.”
Lannon glanced about. Furlus was gone. Four Knights were awake and keeping watch. His eyes lingered on Ollanhar Tower, a great shadowy bulk outlined against the stars. Leaving his home in the care of others made him anxious, but he reminded himself that Furlus was more than capable of defending the keep.
“Come,” said Aldreya, tugging at his sleeve.
The two of them started across the field.
The bard, who was seated in the grass with his back against a barrel, suddenly opened his eyes. He lifted his wide-brimmed hat, shook a moth from it, and placed it on his head. He winked at Aldreya. “Have a good journey.”
“We’re merely going for a walk,” Aldreya replied.
The bard chuckled, his eyes shining. “Enjoy your walk, then, my young friends…however far it takes you and to whatever end. My lips shall reveal nothing. Would you like me to play a melody for you?” He lifted his flute.
Aldreya gazed at the bard for a moment, looking annoyed. “Go back to sleep. It is late.”
He bowed and lowered the brim of his hat over his face.
They moved on past him.
“So much for secrecy,” Lannon whispered.
She shrugged. “We do what we can.”
“I’ll bet the Knights are tired,” said Lannon, “considering all the merrymaking. Are you sure it’s a wise decision to leave on this night?”
“Yes,” she replied, “for the Lawkeeper is camped nearby. He will not be expecting us to depart during the Festival. This is a great opportunity to slip away unnoticed. We will ride until morning and then rest in a forest until noon.”
Knights: Defenders of Ollanhar (Ollanhar Series Book 1) Page 10
