by Chuck Black
Quinlan drew his long knife and dove on top of the rattled warrior before he could regain his feet. Leather and steel entangled as the two combatants fought for an advantage. The warrior slammed an elbow into Quinlan’s jaw, and the young knight nearly lost his senses. He countered with a gauntleted fist that tore off the thin band of black cloth that hid the warrior’s eyes.
Chills ran up Quinlan’s spine as he stared into his enemy’s eyes. He felt as though he had just peered into the empty cavern of an ocean abyss. There was nothing there … no life, no soul.
The warrior squinted in the light, and this gave Quinlan the opportunity he needed. His long knife pierced through a chink in the warrior’s armor, and the warrior went still. This time Quinlan did not hesitate. He withdrew the knife and lunged for his sword, which lay near the body of the fallen steed. He scrambled to get a solid grip on the handle, for other warriors were coming his way.
Quinlan sprinted a few paces away to avoid the leading warriors and their horses, but to his surprise, they raced past him and beyond into the surrounding woods. The remaining warriors gave up their grim work and followed. There was no battle cry of victory or taunting of future evil deeds, just the silent exodus of a merciless enemy.
He glanced toward the warrior he had defeated and was shocked to see him rising to his feet. The warrior stumbled, then gathered himself and ran toward one of the last retreating warriors. The mounted warrior reached down, locked hands, and swung Quinlan’s foe onto the back of his horse, and they disappeared into the dust stirred up by their retreating comrades.
Breathing hard, Quinlan stood and surveyed the destruction around him. A few Silent Warriors had been killed, but many more men, women, and children lay motionless. Moments later, Kessler, Drake, and Purcell rushed into the aftermath and dismounted near him, swords drawn and ready.
Kessler and Drake looked all around them, trying to make sense of what had happened, but Purcell came straight for Quinlan.
“He signaled you to stay!” Purcell rushed at Quinlan and shoved him backward. “They had split their forces and were coming in your direction. You left the commander open to an ambush!”
Tears filled Quinlan’s eyes. All he could do was slowly shake his head. He had no words to defend, deny, or excuse himself.
“That’s enough, Purcell.” Kessler stepped between them. Purcell glared at Kessler, then spun about and walked a few paces away.
Quinlan looked into Kessler’s eyes and saw the same pain and disappointment that he felt in his own heart. Drake silently turned away, obviously wrestling with his own anger. Quinlan hung his head in utter shame.
“Can you help us?” a voice called out. A knight approached them, carrying a child. Blood spilled from a gash on his head.
“The buildings are lost, and we have many wounded. We can take them over there.” He motioned with his head to a clearing away from the burning buildings.
His appearance jarred the knights from their own grief and anger. “What … happened?” Drake asked slowly.
The man shook his head. “We knew there was a threat, but this is far beyond anything we expected.” He turned and looked sadly at the remnants of the haven. “I’ve seen Shadow Warriors before,” he said solemnly. “These were something … more. Some of my people will ask where the Prince was in all of this.” He shook his head again, then proceeded on to the clearing where others were gathering.
For the rest of the day, the four valor knights lost themselves in the duties of giving aid. They transported the wounded to homes in the city and stayed until there was little more they could do. At one point, Quinlan found himself tending a severely wounded young knight in the haven leader’s home.
“I saw you fight that warrior,” the young man said. “I hope I can be as brave as you one day.”
Quinlan clenched his teeth. The boy’s comments stung like salt in a fresh wound. “There is only One whose actions you should aspire to duplicate,” he said quietly.
The young man smiled. “The Prince!” Then he closed his eyes to rest.
Quinlan exited the house and started down the street, but he stopped when he heard voices around the corner. Drake, Purcell, and Kessler were discussing their options.
“So you want to just give up and ride away?” That was Kessler. “The Swords of Valor are to be no more?”
“Taras only spoke to the commander,” Purcell’s voice replied. “We are part of this unit because Baylor recruited us. How are we supposed to continue without him?”
Silence.
“Well?”
“I’m afraid he’s right,” Drake finally said.
“What of Quinlan?” Kessler asked.
“What of him?” Purcell’s voice was bitter. “I knew that bringing him into the unit was a mistake. Now Baylor has paid for it with his life!”
Purcell’s words hit Quinlan square in the chest, and he could take it no more. The muscles convulsed on his burning face as he quietly moved away from the corner, found Kobalt, and silently disappeared into the night.
PATHYON
“Baylor is dead, my lord, and the Swords of Valor have disbanded.” The bald Shadow Warrior bowed low before the dark throne of Lucius as he gave his report. “My paythas are quickly reproducing and making imbeciles out of the Knights of the Prince.”
A wicked smile crossed the Dark Lord’s face, and he turned to the massive figure beside him. “See, Luskan. Pathyon is exactly who we needed for Burkfield.” His smiled turned to a scowl. “Don’t ever hesitate on my orders again!”
“Yes, my lord.” The massive Shadow Warrior said. “But may I remind your lordship that it was my Assassin Warriors that executed Baylor, not Pathyon and his furry—”
“Quit sniveling, Luskan,” Lucius growled. “Your drugged warrior squad may have killed Baylor for us, but I need warriors whose minds aren’t turned to mush when you’re through with them.”
Luskan shot Pathyon a vengeful glare, but Pathyon ignored it.
“With the Swords of Valor disbanded and my paythas controlling the haven knights, destroying Burkfield will be rather simple. Shall I proceed?” Pathyon’s dark eyes gleamed in anticipation of the carnage.
“Not yet. We shall fatten the calf before we kill it and feast.” Lucius brought his hands together and crossed his fingers. “Let the city continue to prosper and the haven slowly die. Then I will make an example of that city for all of the kingdom to see. Its destruction will help initiate my final plan.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Pathyon bowed low once more and smiled as he exited the dark throne room. Luskan scowled at him as he exited. In an empire built on deception and treachery, there are no friends.
TWITCH ONCE MORE
Quinlan spurred Kobalt hard, trying to put distance between them and what happened at Garriston, but there was no escaping. With every mile he felt the reality of it closing in, draining him of hope.
A storm threatened on the Plains of Zoat, but Quinlan barely noticed. Lightning arced from cloud to cloud in a constant strobe of brilliant flashes, but he rode on. When the dark clouds overhead roared and poured rain down on him, it felt only right.
Quinlan had been riding for hours when he finally stopped Kobalt and slid to the ground. He stumbled away from the steed and on through torrential downpour, conscious of nothing but his agonizing thoughts.
He had been insignificant his whole life. And now his feeble effort to follow the Prince under Sir Baylor’s tutelage felt like a mockery. Baylor was dead. The Swords of Valor blamed Quinlan, and justifiably so. He had dared to care and now desperately wished he hadn’t, for the pain was unbearable.
He fell to his knees in the mud and buried his face in his hands. His tears disappeared into the streams of rainwater that flowed down his face. Quinlan was certain that no one in all the land would care or notice if he simply vanished. If only he could do just that.
“What a fool I was even to try,” he said aloud, but the thunder robbed him of even this small moment of m
ourning. He ached to the very depth of his soul and could not imagine the pain ever stopping.
I’m sorry, my Prince. Who am I to think that I could serve You? I am … nothing.
Long after the rain had stopped, Quinlan still crouched in the mud, unable to move. Kobalt came over and nudged him, then nudged again. After three attempts, the horse managed to stir his master. Quinlan grabbed onto his steed’s harness and lifted himself up. With monumental effort, he managed to mount. Then, with hardly a thought, he set his course toward Burkfield.
On the long journey home, Quinlan avoided all human contact, for the only comfort he found in his grief was his isolation. His travel was extremely slow, and he had to subsist on nuts and berries, but he didn’t care. He didn’t even really care if he made it home—in fact, he dreaded it. He only traveled that direction because it was a direction.
After two weeks of travel, an emaciated Quinlan finally arrived in Burkfield.
“Twitch!” Tav shouted when he opened the door and Quinlan nearly fell through it. “What in the kingdom happened to you?”
Tav grabbed his friend and helped him to a chair. He brought him a flask of water, some bread, and some fruit and waited patiently while Quinlan slowly ate and drank.
“Thank you,” Quinlan said softly.
By now, Tav’s father and mother had joined them. All were relieved to see Quinlan but obviously concerned for him. Tav’s father crossed his arms across his chest. “Is Baylor nearby?”
Quinlan shook his head. He didn’t yet have the courage to tell them what had happened. “I’m very tired,” he murmured.
“Of course,” Tav’s mother said. “Your room is just as it was.”
Quinlan gave her a thankful nod and stumbled down the hallway. Maybe this time sleep would bring him relief.
After a few days of recovery, Quinlan was finally able to share the tragic news of Sir Baylor’s death with Tav and his parents. They took it better than Quinlan had expected. He wondered if perhaps they tempered their response for his sake, for he could hardly speak the words of that dreadful story. They also seemed hesitant to believe him, for that would mean believing that Baylor was more than a fanatic.
For Quinlan, the memory of that tragic day in Garriston was a wound that wouldn’t heal, for he kept reliving every detail in his mind. The pain of the memory seemed an appropriate penance for his gross error, a small price to pay for the life of one as great as Sir Baylor and the damage to the work of the Prince in Arrethtrae. He tortured himself with wondering how many Knights of the Prince were attempting missions unprotected by the Swords of Valor. That thought also caused him to wonder why he had never seen attacks made on the haven or city of Burkfield.
As the weeks and months passed, Quinlan’s questions gradually faded into the background and he began to live days that were not completely filled with regret. He eased back into his old life at Burkfield and became Twitch once more.
Even as the pain of his error slowly faded, however, he found himself unable to find peace in his old life. He had seen the other side of the kingdom, both the dark and the glorious, and no matter how comfortable he was in Burkfield, he couldn’t forget that ancient hidden war. Caught between two worlds, he was more miserable than he had ever been in his life.
Tav wasn’t much help. He and Quinlan tried to pick up their friendship where they had left off, but both had changed. Disty, now the size of a raccoon and an ever-present companion to Tav, was a constant irritant to Quinlan. Since his commissioning, Tav had also begun spending more time with Mirya and less time at the haven.
For different reasons, Quinlan was reticent in regard to his involvement with the Burkfield haven, and Sir Edmund did not press the issue. He assigned Quinlan to maintenance and other menial tasks required at the haven, a job that suited his carpentry skills quite well. On the surface, it seemed a natural fit for Twitch. Inwardly, Quinlan was slowly dying.
Quinlan knew Sir Edmund was a good man, though frustrated by the growing lack of enthusiasm among many of the Followers at the haven. Quinlan occasionally felt the urge to help but couldn’t bring himself to step forward for anything more than a routine presence. Discouragement had closed up his ears to any call to missions.
About four months after Quinlan’s journey back to Burkfield, word began to spread that a man of renown would be visiting in an effort to revitalize the haven. Mixed emotions welled up in Quinlan when he heard the visitor’s name—Sir Worthington. The man and his supporting knights would conduct a week’s worth of special training.
Although originally from Cameria, Quinlan was told, the man worked out of the haven at Thecia, planning and conducting missions. His significant success as a servant of the Prince had earned him kingdom-wide attention in recent months. He was a man everyone wanted to meet … or almost everyone.
“Are you going to attend the meetings?” Quinlan asked Tav one morning at breakfast.
“I’ve got other plans … with Mirya.” Tav winked at Quinlan. “You’ll have to tell me how it goes.”
“Sure.” Quinlan looked sadly at his friend, who seemed to be slipping away from the call of the Prince.
Quinlan wasn’t sure he wanted to attend the training either, but he was curious about Sir Worthington. He had liked the man from their brief encounter but wondered how all the prestige had changed him. Such widespread fame was like having a porcupine for a pet—eventually you’re going to get pierced. Quinlan also wondered how much of Worthington’s recognition was due to his natural charisma and how much was due to truly doing the work of the Prince. Would the Swords of Valor still be defending him if they hadn’t disbanded?
Quinlan decided to attend the first day of training just to see if Worthington was worth the effort of defending him.
Quinlan arrived at the haven that day to find only twenty-four knights had gathered for the first session—a paltry showing for a city the size of Burkfield. Sir Worthington was already addressing them, and Quinlan found an inconspicuous place at the back where he could pretend to work on a broken segment of a fence while he watched and listened.
Six of Worthington’s supporting knights, four male and two female knights, stood near the front. Quinlan watched them first, knowing he could learn much about Worthington by observing those who followed him. The knights looked confident and serious. One of them was the female knight he remembered from Arimil.
Quinlan then turned his attention to the stately looking Sir Worthington, who addressed the assembly with a gentle but compelling voice. “Each of you is here for his or her own reason. Some are here because you are simply curious.” Quinlan felt his cheeks flush as Worthington continued. “Some are here because it would look bad if you weren’t. Others have come because you truly want to develop your skills as knights.”
Worthington smiled as several in his audience nodded. “Whatever your reason, I am glad you are here. I hope that when we are through, all of you will be here for only one reason—because you want to serve the King and the Prince with your whole heart! Without that as your reason, you are not truly a knight.”
Worthington drew his sword and placed the tip in the ground before him. “Sir Edmund asked me to come, but you must understand that I come at great risk to you.” He paused to let the knights absorb his words. “The Dark Knight is out there, and he will stop at nothing to destroy the cause of the Prince.”
He picked up the sword and swept its tip in front of him. “My fellow knights, the cause of the Prince is your cause too. When your heart pounds with passion for that cause, you take up a battle that has been raging from the beginning of time.”
Quinlan’s eyes suddenly filled, and he turned away. He was unprepared for the powerful tug those words made on his heart.
“You wear the mark of the Prince,” Worthington continued. “He died on a tree so that you each could become one of His knights. Do not let the comforts of this kingdom distract you from the call he gave Cedric, William, Rob, and the other first knights on that great d
ay. We are called to go into all the kingdom and recruit others to become Knights of the Prince, stay true to the Code, and prepare for battle against the Dark Knight. And I ask, are you prepared to do that?”
Worthington looked across the assembly, gazing into the eyes of each knight. Quinlan took a deep breath, feeling foolish and self-righteous for presuming to judge Sir Worthington. He wanted to leave but couldn’t … not yet. He needed to hear and see more.
Sir Worthington and his knights broke up the assembly into smaller units to dig more deeply into the Code. Quinlan busied himself with a few camp duties but listened in on a session that a knight was conducting nearby.
“Understand that the Code was perfectly fulfilled by the Prince,” the knight said with enthusiasm, “something no Arrethtraen could ever do. Because of the King’s great Son, the Code is therefore written on our hearts, and we live in the spirit of the Code, a governing that transcends rules written on parchment.”
Quinlan was amazed at the quality of Worthington’s training. He fully understood why Sir Edmund had sent for the man and his team. He also wondered if, in the absence of the Swords of Valor, the Silent Warriors were working harder to protect Worthington. Had Quinlan’s error actually put this great man in danger?
Eventually Worthington and his knights began training the knights from the haven in various methods of combat, especially sword fighting. Fear of failure kept Quinlan from joining, and knowledge of the truth kept him from leaving, but by noon the conflict in his bosom was more than he could take.
Turning to leave, he collided directly with one of Worthington’s knights—the young woman he had seen in Arimil.
“Sorry,” Quinlan mumbled and backed up a step.
The young knight stared at him with beautiful blue eyes that seemed to sparkle with life, even though her countenance was quite serious. “It’s all right,” she replied, pushing a loose tendril of dark brown hair out of her face. The rest of it was gathered in a braid that hung midway down her back. “It’s not the first time.”
