Knights: Defenders of Ollanhar (Ollanhar Series Book 1)

by Keller, Robert E.

  As a young farmer boy living in a remote area, Faindan had been terrified of Goblins. His mother used to tell him grim stories to frighten him into behaving, and he had spent countless nights awake in his room and huddled beneath his quilt, cringing at every noise. When he reached his teens, that terror had turned to fascination with the creatures of Tharnin—a fascination that had ultimately led him to Dremlock Kingdom and its libraries. After earning Knighthood, Faindan’s love of Goblins had turned to disgust and a desire to see them all killed.

  “Good riddance,” he whispered, as he gazed at the monster.

  The horse motioned with its head, doing everything it could to persuade Faindan to ride on. Faindan too was anxious to get away from the stone ruins and the dead Wolf, but he needed a moment to steady himself before attempting to climb into the saddle. He glanced at the Wolf again, and a shock surged through him. Had the beast moved slightly? The Wolf’s yellow eyes shone with malice and evil, still very lifelike, the Deep Shadow’s presence still infesting the corpse.

  Faindan gazed at the Wolf for several moments, and when he detected no further movement, he decided it must have been his imagination or simply the beast’s fur rippling in the breeze—or both. Or maybe an insect or two had already found the body and was seeking to feed. Faindan shuddered, his nerves raw.

  Too weak and sore to worry about his tent or other items, Faindan had all he could do just to give his horse food and water and then climb into the saddle. Once he managed that task, he found his horse able to bear his weight without difficulty. He gazed back at the abandoned campsite, the tent door gaping open like a shadowy mouth, and he shivered. Something about this whole area was dreadfully wrong. The Deep Shadow had a strong presence here.

  “Thank you, my friend,” said Faindan, “for carrying me onward.” He stroked the horse’s fur. “I’m sorry if I’m causing you any pain. We both need rest and healing.” It was a tradition of the Knights of Dremlock to not name their horses. It was considered rude to impose a name on a creature that couldn’t speak for itself. However, each horse responded to the word horse as if a unique name had been called, even when there were several Greywinds together. Each horse somehow always knew it was being summoned. These were the blessed creatures bred by the Divine Essence and unique to Dremlock, and it was common for a Knight to form a deep friendship with his steed to the point of defending the animal to the death.

  The horse started off at a brisk pace, as Faindan ate some jerky and sipped at a water flask. Then Faindan dozed in the saddle for periods of time, as the Greywind followed the road back toward Ollanhar. Occasionally Faindan would awaken to jolts of pain through his body. The Greywind’s strength and stamina was far beyond that of his own, its wound healing swiftly as the hours passed by. It was a hot day beneath a cloudy sky, and sweat dripped from Faindan’s brow.

  “Soon we will be home,” Faindan said to his horse. “Your wound will be tended to properly, and you will be given much rest…” He drifted away again, his mind slipping into dreams where he still had two hands.

  ***

  It was late afternoon, when the clouds were reddened by the setting sun, when Faindan came across a lone house on a hillside. It looked to have once been part of a small castle, though only a single, crumbling stone tower that rose up from a river and a section of a stone wall remained. The house itself was old as well, made of colorful stones and bearing a round and pointed red roof with a smoking stone chimney. The dwelling was surrounded by blue and yellow flowers that extended down the hillside to the river. The river looked to have once been a castle moat, with part of an ancient, mossy drawbridge sticking out of the water near the slimy base of the tower. Nearby stood a small barn, a white horse peeking out of it at Faindan.

  Faindan rode to the door, climbed off his horse, and knocked. Moments later he was greeted by a lean, mostly bald man of about fifty who was dressed in a colorful robe. His hands were wet with clay, and he held a rag which he had used to open the door. As he beheld Faindan’s Knightly appearance—the fancy clothing and leather armor of Dremlock—he bowed.

  “Greetings,” said Faindan. “I am injured and seeking a place to sleep for the night. My horse also needs attention.”

  The man bowed again. “Of course, oh Divine Knight. My barn is small, but it should be comfortable enough for your horse.” He raised his eyebrows. “I can see that both you and your steed have endured many hardships.”

  Faindan nodded. “I can pay you for helping us.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Any Divine Knight is a good friend of mine, as you will soon learn. Your presence here is a great honor to me. Dinner is almost prepared. Go in and make yourself at home. I will tend to your horse.”

  “Thank you,” said Faindan, as he stepped inside.

  The first thing Faindan noticed upon entering was a detailed wooden statue of a hideous beast standing in a corner—a beast of six powerful tentacles and with two round eyes the size of saucers. The beast held two large fish in its tentacles, their flesh ripped open. It was a fantastic carving, and Faindan realized he was in the house of an artist who seemed to have a love of very odd decorations.

  The rooms were filled with carvings, sculptures, and paintings—some that depicted scenes from Dremlock Kingdom’s past. Despite his pain, Faindan wandered around a bit, taking in all the colorful sights. At last he slumped down in a chair, overcome with agony and weariness. He needed meditation and healing, but he just wanted to sleep and forget everything. He savored the smell of cooking stew, his belly hungering for a hot meal, as he drifted into slumber.

  Soon the artist returned, his footsteps awakening Faindan.

  “My name is Gelarro,” he said, bowing again to the Knight.

  Faindan introduced himself, and they shook hands.

  “Your horse is doing well,” said Gelarro. “I fed and watered him, and bandaged his wound. Our stew is almost done, and there is bread to go with it.”

  “Excellent,” said Faindan. “I’m very hungry.”

  Gelarro gazed at him with a curious expression. “I’m the sort that always wants to know everything, but of course a Knight’s business is his own.”

  Faindan laughed bitterly. “You want to know my exciting story? Very well. I was cursed by the Deep Shadow and I cut off my own hand to stop the pain.” He raised the stump to show Gelarro. “Cut it off and destroyed it. Then I was attacked by a Goblin—a huge Wolf—and had my ribs broken.”

  Gelarro’s face paled a bit. “Yes, yes, I knew something terrible had happened to you. To sever one’s own hand—it defies my understanding. And Goblins! Let me tell you about Goblins, great Knight. I have one of my own, who prowls the waters of the ancient moat, eating all of my fish.”

  “I saw the statue,” said Faindan.

  Gelarro frowned. “Well, the statues does not do the beast justice. It is a rather poorly done imitation, actually. What I need is the real thing, so I can stuff it and mount it. And so I can eat fish again.”

  “I would love to help,” said Faindan. “After all, killing Goblins is what we Divine Knights do. But obviously, I’m not in any shape to be fighting.”

  “Of course,” said Gelarro. “I wouldn’t ask it of you. If, after you rest here a bit, you happen to feel up to the challenge…”

  “I only have one hand,” Faindan pointed out.

  “Yet you can still fight,” said Gelarro. “You slew a mighty Wolf. But, again, I wouldn’t ask such a favor of you. I leave it totally in your han…” He cleared his throat. “I leave it totally up to you.”

  “The stew smells delicious,” said Faindan. “A bit of ale would be excellent too if you’ve got any. Enough ale to send me into a sleep my pain cannot breach. All I want to do is forget this miserable world.”

  “Consider it done,” said Gelarro. “I shall fill your mug as many times as you desire, oh warrior of the Sacred Kingdom—with my most expensive Dwarven ale. You will sink into a slumber so deep you won’t feel a t
hing, and awaken refreshed to a hot breakfast of bacon, eggs, and tea.”

  “Such royal treatment,” mused Faindan. “And how rude it would be if I rested here, healed, and left you with your slimy, fish-eating Goblin.”

  “Do you speak for me, great Knight?” asked Gelarro. “Because those words never crossed my lips. Your home is mine until you choose to leave, and I require no payment of any kind. Why should I pay a defender of Silverland, who made war on Bellis? I am not that greedy.”

  “You’re a good man, Gelarro,” said Faindan. “If I am strong enough to battle your river beast, consider it done. Why don’t you see to that stew?”

  Gelarro bowed twice. “Of course. You may remain in your comfortable chair. I will bring the bowl to you.”

  Faindan couldn’t help but grin broadly. “I feel like a king. This must be how that tyrant Verlamer lives each and every day. It’s a wonder his belly isn’t fat and his muscles weak from lack of use. Since you’re so inclined to treat me with such hospitality, perhaps you can provide me with a pipe and some tobacco after dinner. Preferably Birlote leaf.”

  Gelarro hesitated, then smiled. “I do indeed have Birlote leaf—from Borenthia itself. It tastes like apples and will delight the soul. Do you like apples?”

  “Apples, pears, plums—makes no difference to me,” said Faindan. “You bring it, I’ll smoke it. Anything Birlote is good.”

  “Except the ale,” Gelarro pointed out. “Too weak.”

  “Except the ale,” Faindan echoed. “That’s right. Give me Olrog ale any day of the week and especially today.”

  Gelarro headed off to get the food and drink.

  Soon Faindan was engaged in a delicious feast—beef stew in gravy and crusty, buttered bread. He ate and drank until his belly hurt and he could hold no more, then he leaned back in the padded chair, savoring a delicious smoke.

  Gelarro pulled a chair close to him, so the two were facing each other. Gelarro lit his own pipe. “A Blue Knight of Dremlock,” he said, still bearing his curious expression.

  Faindan nodded. “Yes, a spy and assassin. That’s me. But I don’t feel like answering any questions right now. In fact, I’m soon to fall asleep. But before I do, I would like to know a few things about you. Why no wife or children? As a Divine Knight, I’m not allowed any, so I always feel surprised when I see others who could marry and raise a family neglecting to do so.”

  “Maybe it was simply my choice,” said Gelarro. “Perhaps I find women and children annoying. Perhaps I hate babies. Does that make me less of a man somehow?”

  “Your way of life is your own business,” said Faindan. “But I sense that’s not your situation. Why don’t you tell me what really happened?” The ale was already getting to Faindan, causing him to slur his words a bit. His pain was dulled along with his wits, and he spoke whatever came to mind.

  Gelarro looked away, a haunted expression on his face. “The soldiers of Bellis came and liked what they saw—a beautiful wife and daughter. They took them away, supposedly to punish me for paintings that so deeply offended them—paintings of war against Bellis, of the great dome burning. Can you even imagine how deeply I suffered, watching them take my wife?” His eyes widened. “And my daughter—who was only thirteen and so kind-hearted she saved bugs from drowning—dragged off to a fate too horrible to contemplate. I didn’t sleep for days, until I finally collapsed from exhaustion. I wanted to end my own life, but I stayed alive because of the slim hope that they too might survive and seek me out again.”

  Faindan sighed. “Horrible beyond words, my friend. What can I say that will bring you peace? Nothing, really. I can’t even guarantee that Dremlock will defeat Bellis, considering we are hopelessly outnumbered by Verlamer’s warriors. I thought I knew pain when I cut off my hand, but your pain is unfathomable to me.” He drained his ale mug and it slipped from his fingers and thudded to the floor.

  Gelarro lifted it and filled it, handing it back to Faindan.

  “Look around,” said Gelarro. “You see my colorful home, with all of its statues and paintings? Crammed full, with more to come. Soon there will be little space for living. This home is actually a dreary prison, a place of such loss that I despise it and am always trying to change it with more artwork. But nothing I do matters. Each morning when I awaken, I expect to hear their voices, but there is only wretched silence to remind me that life is heartless and cruel.”

  “Life is heartless,” Faindan repeated, raising his stump of a wrist. “Well, not all of it. Our god is just and merciful and good.”

  Gelarro sneered. “Then why didn’t your wonderful god protect my wife and daughter, who, at best, will receive a life of slavery and hardship? My daughter, so young and innocent, dragged away screaming by grinning, evil men. Where was your god then?”

  “My god could do nothing,” Faindan admitted. “It is a helpless god, unable to walk—trapped forever in a chamber of crystal. It is only a piece of a god—a Flamestone that represents the White Guardian’s mind. It has to rely on its Knights to get stuff done, and we failed you, Gelarro. We failed you miserably.”

  Gelarro guzzled some ale, then bowed his head. At last he said, “Don’t blame yourself, Faindan. Mortal men and women can only do so much—even if they’re great Knights. And I won’t blame any god—not even the Great Light that hovers above the mountain like a watchful eye—for it is left to us mortals to freely choose how we treat others. There is no one to blame except those with evil hearts.”

  Faindan didn’t respond. He was slipping away.

  “I know it is absurd,” said Gelarro, “but I feel like if I can just kill the Goblin in the moat and stuff it—to display proudly in my home—my pain will somehow diminish. I have tried for years, but it is a mighty creature. If you succeed, I will be forever grateful to you.”

  Faindan nodded, and then his mind went dark.

  ***

  Faindan ended up spending five days at the artist’s house, during which time he healed up thanks to plenty of rest and meditation. The two became friends, and Gelarro painted a picture of the young Knight holding his Flayer in one hand and with his missing hand thrust into a cloak pocket. The painting captured a determined but uncertain face darkened by stubble, with black hair that was in need of a trim. In the background was a fiery crimson sky from the setting sun.

  “It is yours, if you want it,” said Gelarro, the next morning.

  Faindan declined. “Keep it, my friend. Maybe you can sell it to someone and earn back some of your money for wasting food on this sorry excuse for a Knight. Which reminds me—you should be paid a bit of silver for this.”

  “Nonsense,” said Gelarro, looking offended. “I will keep the painting as payment enough and I will not sell it. It is one of my best.”

  It was time for Gelarro to head to town to sell some of his art. He loaded up his small wagon and went off down the road, leaving Faindan in charge of his home. Faindan ate some bacon and eggs for breakfast, drank two cups of tea, and then wandered outside.

  It was a pleasant morning, with a bit of dew still on the grass and the air warming quickly as the sun climbed into the sky. Birds chirped from the rooftop and frogs croaked in the river. Faindan inhaled fresh air and then strode down the river bank to the water’s edge. He gazed at the murky water that wound between the hills, with the broken, mossy drawbridge sticking out of it—an old and slimy castle moat from ancient times, the water too dark to peer into.

  Faindan studied the crumbing stone tower that rose from the water. If the Goblin liked to linger by the base of the tower, all Faindan would have to do is wait for it to show up and then attack. He sat down on the bank and waited, determined to slay the beast and give its body to Gelarro. He had his doubts that it would improve the artist’s gloomy mood, but he felt obligated to try and help anyway.

  It troubled Faindan deeply to think of the pain Gelarro was enduring, and it fueled his anger toward Bellis. Those weren’t Knights who had taken Gelarro’s wife and daughter. They were
heartless cowards—especially if they had harmed the two girls in any way. He wondered how people could be so wicked and selfish as to inflict such misery on others? How could they sleep at night knowing what they had done? Faindan wanted to crush Bellis and to behead King Verlamer, but he was just a lone Knight with a missing hand—seemingly powerless in the grand scheme of things. Bellis could do what it wanted, however evil.

  “Just an idiot on a river bank,” he mumbled, tossing a stone into the black water. “Soon to be just another failed Knight banished from the Order.” He felt even more idiotic for talking to himself, but he kept on. “Come on, you wretched Goblin! Come forth and die so I can be on my way!”

  But the Goblin didn’t show, as the hours passed by. Faindan fidgeted restlessly on the bank. Finally he rose and tried stirring up the water with stones, but nothing responded. Finally he slumped back down with a sigh.

  Faindan dozed off periodically, as the day grew hotter toward noon and he began to sweat—eventually awakening to a startling sight. Something strange was floating down the river, moving toward him. At first he thought it was a dark mass of tree roots, considering how still the object was, but then he realized it was moving against the current. As it drew close, Faindan’s heart raced in his chest, for he could make out warty flesh and two large round eyes.

  The creature neared the tower, and Faindan slowly drew his Flayer. The beast’s tentacles writhed about and it sank below the surface. Faindan leapt up, watching the water, but it did not surface.

  “Come back up!” he yelled, throwing a stone at it. He waved his arms and yelled some more, but the river flowed on undisturbed.

  Faindan’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll bet you’re hiding by the tower, stuck fast to the slimy stone and waiting for fish. Now you’re mine, Goblin!”