"Be gone from me, Deep Shadow!" he muttered.
In response, the music faded some--to the point where he wasn't quite sure he could still hear it. He paused and listened carefully, and he thought maybe it was still there. But he could have been hearing something else.
He felt like a Ghoul as he quietly descended the stairs. What creature of darkness had Faindan Stillsword become, in the deep hours of the night? What lonely and creeping thing walked through Ollanhar, quietly going to an unknown fate? How had a Divine Knight been twisted into such an unrecognizable form?
He paused to gaze at a painting of a former Lord Knight named Faktus Winterheart, who stood before some snowy pines and held a shining sword in one hand that was catching moonlight. The gruff, bearded face that had a patch over one eye gazed sternly at him. The one eye held a glint of disgust, and the sword seemed poised to strike Faindan down.
Faindan gazed back at the painting. "Sorry, old fellow, but I'm not your enemy. Don't glare at me like that."
Faktus Winterheart's scowl seemed to deepen. Faindan noticed a streak of red on the Lord Knight's shining sword, as if it had been bloodied.
With a groan, Faindan smashed the painting off the wall. It landed so that Faktus Winterheart was still gazing at him--only now the Lord Knight looked grotesquely evil. Faindan drew his own sword to cleave the painting in two. Then he remembered that destroying an ancient painting was not good for his career.
Clinging to that rational thought, he hung the painting back up.
Faktus Winterheart seemed back to normal again.
"You'll get yours, Deep Shadow!" he whispered, and then, before the evil reappeared, he hurried off down the stairs.
Chapter 8:
The Endless and Watchful Hills
The Knights decided not to confront Bellis over the attack on Prince Vannas. They opted to avoid bloodshed and stay focused on their mission. They knew Ethella and the High Wizard would continue to make trouble for them, but they preferred the threat of more assassination attempts over a bloody war.
As the days passed by, and the fall chill deepened, Lannon and the Knights found themselves traveling through the Oldermar Hills. They were used to hill country--but not like this. The hills were enormous, the valleys between them deep and long. Trees colored red and gold from the fall season blanketed the hillsides that rose high above them, sometimes interrupted by rocky cliffs and waterfalls. Old, battered houses were visible here and there, many with yards strewn with junk (which reminded Lannon of the home he had grown up in). Many of the houses protruded from steep hillsides, resting at odd angles and appearing ready to collapse, with old pots, pans, broken barrels and such scattered down the slopes. Some homes were dug right into the hills, with metal chimneys rising up from the dirt.
"The land of the Malrogs," said Jace, "better known as the Hill Dwarves. They are not friendly folk, and we are not welcome here. They tolerate travelers who stay on the roads, but strangers who dare venture into the hills are seldom seen again. This is a land where it is all too easy to vanish forever."
Daledus nodded. "Malrogs--the Lowborn Dwarves. Barbarians that serve no kingdom and obey no laws. They were cursed by the Deep Shadow long ago, made deformed and ugly. They no longer serve Tharnin, but they're still crude and cruel folk who have no love for outsiders."
"They are very powerful," said Jace, "and quite dangerous in a fight. Their crooked arms possess the strength of Trolls, and they are difficult to wound or kill. It is said they can tear a man apart with ease. However, unless we stray from the road we probably won't encounter them. They prefer to hide away in the hills in their ugly dwellings, when they're not merrymaking."
A light rain began to fall, adding to the chill atmosphere. The travelers shivered beneath their cloaks. Streaks of wood smoke rose from the wooded hills from hidden dwellings, the scent of it strong in their nostrils. They longed to sit under a roof and dry themselves before a fire, but there were no friendly fires to be found here. They could sense eyes watching them from the slopes--from beneath the colorful fall leaves--and could almost feel the hostility.
The rain continued for days.
Jerret and Saranna had fully recovered from their wounds, with some help from Dallsa, and Bekka was also doing much better. Bekka's stamina had increased, and she was able to ride for hours each day and practice with her sword. She still suffered from terrible nightmares, however, and rarely seemed to get enough sleep. Dallsa continued to assist Bekka as much as she could.
The arrow to the leg had made Jerret more aggressive and more determined to improve as a warrior. Each time they stopped for a meal he ate quickly and trained hard, refusing to rest. He dedicated himself to mastering the art of deflecting projectiles--a skill more suited to a Blue Knight--and was constantly trying to persuade people to assist with his training. Fortunately he found a willing partner in Bekka, who filled the role that Galvia used to occupy. Although Bekka was a Blue Knight and Jerret a Red, they found ways to help each other.
Jerret's restlessness made him want to wander and explore in order to test his growing skills. On two occasions he left the road and wandered into the hills, which resulted in stern lectures from Aldreya.
On a third occasion, Jerret vanished into the woods while they were camped for lunch. They waited for him to return, but after an hour had passed, they grew concerned.
"I've had enough of Jerret's disobedience," said Aldreya. "I am hereby ordering him confined to this group until we pass beyond the Oldermar Hills. We will keep him here by force if necessary."
"That would be no easy task," said Vorden. "Jerret is strong as a bull."
"I'm serious," said Aldreya. "He's not leaving again."
"This is a dangerous situation," said Jace. "He could bring the wrath of the Malrogs down upon us. They might assume we have ill intentions--that we are trying to spy on them, or steal from them. There are vast numbers of them living in these hills, and they will band together quickly when threatened. That is a conflict we definitely want to avoid."
"I'll find him," said Lannon, hurriedly finishing his stew.
"I'll go with you," said Lothrin.
"No," said Aldreya, "let Lannon go alone. He travels more quickly when alone, and there is less chance he will be detected by the Hill Dwarves."
"They're already watching us," said Jace, looking grim.
***
Lannon quickly located Jerret's trail. It went straight up a steep, wooded hillside to some unknown destination. The Eye of Divinity revealed that Jerret had moved swiftly up the hill beneath the ancient trees. Lannon was impressed with Jerret's endurance. Running up a hill that steep and tall was a remarkable feat for an armored Knight, yet Jerret's pace had never slowed.
Lannon followed along at his own swift pace, but he used the Eye to sustain him, feeding off its energy. The scent of earth and wet leaves was strong in the forest, and animal and insect noises came from all about. When he reached the dizzying peak of the hill, he expected to find Jerret--but the trail went on down the other side, deep into a narrow valley.
He sighed and then mumbled, "Jerret, where are you going?" It seemed Jerret had lost his wits to wander so far into these hills.
At the heart of the valley was a winding river. Jerret had used a huge, fallen log to cross. Lannon did the same, pausing to gaze down at the dark water below. The Eye revealed healthy fish, which would make a nice dinner. Extending his hand over the water, Lannon sent forth his power and drew several fish into the air. He laid them on the bank.
"Easy fishing," he whispered to himself. But it was also boring and empty of challenge. He would have preferred to catch the fish in a more conventional manner, but lacked the time to spare on such pursuits.
Leaving the fish for later, Lannon continued on.
He went up another hillside--this one even steeper and taller than the last--and when he reached the peak he paused to rest, leaning on a gnarled beach tree. He gazed up at the forest roof of red, orange, and yell
ow leaves, the light rain finding its way down through those leaves and hitting his face. The woods were fresh and full of life, free of the curse of the Deep Shadow that plagued so much of Silverland. But there was darkness here in this ancient domain in the form of those who watched from the shadows and hated outsiders like Lannon. They were all around him and closing in, their stocky bodies--kept hidden by trees, logs, and boulders--racing swiftly and quietly over the hills, arrows and spears ready to be unleashed. Lannon believed he could sense the Hill Dwarves, but he couldn't yet glimpse them with the Eye. It was just a feeling in his stomach and a chill down his spine.
As Lannon started down, he encountered an old house that was standing crooked on the hillside, with a pair of huge oaks keeping it from falling over. The porch had collapsed along with part of the roof, and moss and vines covered the structure. Jerret's trail led into the house.
Lannon cautiously approached the broken porch, kicking at some junk. There were moldy blue bottles in a heap--glass bottles that were worth money in Silverland. Most of them were broken but a few were still intact. He lifted one and examined it, and a centipede crawled out. He tossed it aside.
He made his way past an old cream can, an iron stove half sunken into the earth, a mossy bucket, some broken plates, a long, rusted stovepipe, a rusty bed frame, a broken table with legs pointed skyward, a lump of rust that had once been a lantern, and a pile of shattered clay jugs (among other discarded treasures).
The doorway was tilted along with the house. Lannon entered onto a lopsided floor that tested his balance. The crooked house seemed to drain his energy. "Jerret?" he called out, glancing about. He found himself gazing at bare walls and clumps of moss, with another doorway leading to another room.
"In the living room," Jerret called out. "Just taking a rest."
The living room was actually somewhat level. Jerret was seated on an upside-down bucket. He was soaked in sweat and looked weary. Lannon studied the room with the Eye, and saw decades of life. The memories were strong in this barren home, almost overwhelming: family dinners that sometimes packed the house with people, hearty laughter and children playing, warm summer nights, music by lantern light, and harsh winters where snow would blow in through cracks by the door and windows. He also saw drunkenness, a long illness and terrible pain, frightened children, and deadly brawls. He glimpsed strange rituals when the moon was full above the hills, and Dwarven men applying red face paint in preparation for battle. For all their faults, the Malrogs took great pride in who they were.
Having seen enough, Lannon drew the Eye inside him. "What are you doing here?" he asked Jerret. "Aldreya is angry. You weren't supposed to leave camp, and you've been gone a long time."
"I twisted my ankle," Jerret said, "while coming down this hill. I can't walk very well until the swelling goes down. This looked like a good place to rest."
"Dallsa can fix it," said Lannon. "Shouldn't take her long to remove the swelling and have you back on your feet. Can you make it?"
"Maybe," said Jerret, looking doubtful. "If I go very slow. The problem isn't so much my ankle but the giant hills."
"I guess I can carry you," said Lannon.
"Not a chance," Jerret muttered, folding his arms across his chest. "I'd rather stay here and die."
"I'll just help support you," said Lannon. "Will that work?"
"I suppose," Jerret said reluctantly. "This old house is interesting, don't you think? I wonder who lived here, and why they abandoned it."
"The Hill Dwarves," said Lannon. "The owner caught an illness and became bedridden, leading his children to believe the house was cursed. After his death they left it to rot away and have never set foot in here since."
"Okay," said Jerret, smiling. "You've got it all figured out with a glance. So why don't you use that power to defeat Bellis?"
"I do as much as I can," said Lannon, who always hated it when this topic arose. "Remember, I have an obligation to stay sane and stay out of the Deep Shadow's clutches. Using the Eye too much can be dangerous. The things I see...they have an affect on me. It's a serious business."
Jerret looked skeptical. "If I had the Eye, I would learn everything about everything. I would learn how to be an invincible warrior. I would go where the greatest warriors once gathered and study all their techniques."
"It's not that simple," said Lannon. Jerret had no idea how perilous the Eye could be. Lannon could sense the things that lurked in the shadows--things that would awaken if glimpsed. In ancient times, the Dark Watchman had tried to gain too much knowledge too quickly, and it had cost them dearly. Lannon was determined not to walk that road, even if it meant having to avoid using the Eye.
"Why not?" asked Jerret. "You have the power to know almost anything, and you barely use it. You're using...ten percent of the Eye."
"Ten percent?" said Lannon. "So that's all I'm good for?" Jerret's statement left him irritated.
"It's a crude estimate," said Jerret, shrugging. "I'm going to be honest with you, Lannon. You're not very imaginative when it comes to your power. Half the time all you do is punch, kick, or throw people in battle. More than half, actually. The rest of the time you leap around swinging your sword. Try to envision the things you could do. You could crush an enemy's heart on command."
"I don't like crushing hearts," said Lannon. "It's grotesque. And bear in mind that the Eye adapts to one's fighting style and enhances it. Therefore, it's wise to pick a style and develop it."
"And your style is tossing people around," said Jerret, shaking his head. "The most basic and bone-headed style of all."
"Last I checked," said Lannon, his irritation increasing, "I was a pretty good swordsman."
"That won't last," said Jerret. "You barely use your blade anymore."
"I use it enough," said Lannon, though he wondered if Jerret was right. Had his swordplay weakened? The Eye was always in motion, following his lead and changing to fit his needs.
"I practice with my sword every day," said Jerret. "In fact, I could probably take you in a duel of blades if you weren't so bloody fast. You fight like a brute, putting muscle ahead of skill. I know all about muscle, Lannon. It's there to serve your sword, so you can deliver more powerful blows and smash through armor. Somehow you got it into your head that you need to wrestle with your foes rather than carve them into pieces. I understand you have no love for bloodshed, but what kind of warrior are you becoming? I fear for your future."
"I don't know," said Lannon, giving an honest answer. "I just do what I need to do, and I don't worry about it. I don't draw my sword unless I have to, and so far it has worked well for me. I'm not dead."
"Not yet," said Jerret. "But Tenneth Bard almost got you in that trail. He's sure to keep improving with his swordplay. Will you be ready for him, or do you think you can take him with your fists?"
Jerret's point was valid. The idea of defeating Tenneth Bard by muscle alone was absurd. "You're probably right," Lannon grudgingly admitted. "I'll try to practice a bit more."
"Good!" said Jerret, slapping his knee. "We can do some sparring."
"Is that what this lecture was about?" asked Lannon. "You getting someone to practice with you?"
Jerret shrugged. "It would be good for both of us."
"I'll agree to spar with you," said Lannon, "if you agree not to leave the road anymore until we're beyond these hills."
Jerret contemplated the offer. Before he could answer, something thudded against the wall of the house.
"Come out, spies!" a gruff voice warned them. This was followed by another thud.
"Wonderful," Lannon muttered. "The Hill Dwarves have arrived. Now you've got us in a bind, Jerret."
"Sorry," said Jerret. "I didn't think they would notice me in the forest. And maybe they didn't. Maybe it was you they noticed."
"It was both of us," said Lannon. "This is what Jace warned us about. People who venture into the hills tend to disappear. That means they probably end up murdered. Now we're going to have to
fight for our lives."
Jerret nodded. "I would almost welcome that if my ankle didn't hurt so bad. Nothing wrong with a bit of combat now and then."
Lannon glared at him. "You can't keep seeking out trouble, Jerret. It's not what we need, and it's not fair to the rest of us. We're trying to avoid violence. Remember our mission? The Green Flamestone?"
"That's not my issue anymore," said Jerret. "I'm no longer a Knight, remember? I'm just hired help."
"Nevertheless," said Lannon, "you're not getting paid to lead us into trouble. And you're an Acting Knight, so yes, you're still a Knight. You need to obey the rules, or Aldreya will terminate your employment."
Jerret frowned. "She would do that?"
"Probably," said Lannon. "And it would be justified."
"You're right," said Jerret. "She probably would. I don't want to lose my job. I promise I won't leave camp again until Aldreya gives me approval. And you have to spar with me at least once per day."
"Fair enough," said Lannon.
More pounding noises arose.
"Last warning!" said the gruff voice. "Come out, or die!"
Lannon led the way, with Jerret limping after him. They stepped out onto the hillside, their hands raised to show they meant no harm.
A pair of stones--hurled from slings--flew past them and smashed against the house. Another stone flew at Lannon, and he caught it. He stuck it in his cloak pocket. "Stop shooting at us!" he called out.
Four Hill Dwarves stood on the slope above them, holding slings. These were the first Malrogs Lannon and Jerret had ever seen. They looked like typical Grey Dwarves as far as skin color and drooping eyebrows went, but there were some odd differences. They were slightly taller than Olrogs and their shoulders were actually wider. Their arms were long and somewhat misshapen, obviously possessing enormous strength. They were built like apes (creatures Lannon had seen in drawings in books), and almost as hairy. Rust-colored hair clung to their arms and chests and even the backs of their hands, and they possessed bushy beards of equal hue. They had huge, warty noses. They wore dirty, torn clothing, their trousers held up by suspenders. Two of them had ale jugs sticking out of their pockets. Even from that distance, the smell of booze on them was strong.
Knights: Legends of Ollanhar Page 13
