Legends of the Dread Realm:
Chronicles the First: Knight’s Valor
Copyright © 2012 by Ronald Coleborn
Published by 711 Press
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This is a work of fiction, therefore names, characters, places, and incidents are
either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-935702-11-5
Map
1. The Boy Who Dreams
2. Flight
3. The Report
4. Enter Ghendris
5. Trouble at Court
6. Detour
7. Enemy at the Gates
8. Battlefield
9. Escape and Capture
10. Retreat
11. The King is Dead
Storm clouds gathered in the night sky above Pembrick Hollow, a settlement in the realm of Prybbia that sat on a fertile and densely populated plain bordered by a low mountain range. The town owed its power and prosperity to those mountains, an abundant source of iron, copper, and other metals that smiths often traveled many miles to purchase. Just south of the town lay the desert stretches known as the Barrens of Darmutt, making Pembrick Hollow something of an oasis. Once a cluster of separate villages, the town was now large and flourishing, its narrow streets twisting and turning from a bustling main artery.
At the western fringes of the town, in a squat cottage on an arid plot of land, a woman began to stir. She awoke and dressed herself and then began to dress her son. He gave her no help and seemed nearly lifeless, but the woman didn’t complain.
We’ve got to be on our way now, Quarvik, Seyalinn thought as she pulled a tunic over her son’s head. The weather’s starting to turn, and the rain has held three full months to the hour, which means those men from Aklon will be soaring overhead before long, thirsting for blood—if your latest dreams are to be believed.
Yes, Mother, Quarvik thought in response, his gray eyes rolled to the back of his head, blind to the world around him. And though he could neither see with his eyes nor hear with his ears, he had no need of either. He had the gift of aka’tii, ancient mindspeak. He could invite whomever he desired to share in his thoughts, but so far he had invited only his mother.
Quarvik could not move his limbs. Aside from breathing, the most he could manage was an occasional blink, and he had been this way since his birth. But his mother had accepted his fate and cared for him from that day forward. His father had not been so kindhearted. He had taken one look at his new son, who lay still as death amid the wool blankets, barely bigger than his palm, and walked through the door without a word. He had been gone thirteen annos now, but Quarvik knew him well, for he had seen him in his dreams. But then, Quarvik saw everything in his dreams—past, present, and future.
Seyalinn fastened her son’s breeches and set him down on the bed with his legs dangling over the edge. She grasped one of the leather straps that were sewn into his tunic and turned away from him. She picked up the remaining leather strap in her other hand and pulled both straps, raising Quarvik from the bed. When she felt him against her back, she bent forward and tied the straps in front of her. Quarvik was a mere ninety-five pounds, lighter than many of the dogs that roamed the streets of Pembrick Hollow, and she had no trouble managing him. This was the way they traveled, Seyalinn walking, Quarvik riding on her back like a sack of flour, oblivious to the world, seeing only what he was allowed to see in his dreams. But those dreams offered golden suns and cool breezes, endless meadows covered with red and yellow wildflowers, rabbits and squirrels and deer scampering through fields and forests, sparrows taking flight on tiny wings, and mighty eagles gliding among the clouds. At times he luxuriated in those dream fields and forests, other times he longed to escape them. Most times nowadays, he longed for escape.
Are we going far? Seyalinn questioned.
Quarvik never knew how far his mother had dragged him from one place to the next. His deafness and blindness made it difficult for him to sense distance. And even a mile was enough to tire him. Distance could only be measured by what he saw in his mind.
Yes, it’s far, Quarvik told her with a thought. We’re crossing to the Glyssian Realm. A week out, at most. There we will meet the Dragon Tamer Party.
She walked to a corner of the room and stooped down to pick up a sack of provisions. How are we to arrive at Glyssia? Were you shown? We cannot afford such a journey.
A spice trader will be making his way toward the region. He is packing now to stay ahead of the rain. His horses will take us.
And of this you’re sure? You have to be sure, Quarvik.
It will require one thing of you, Mother.
So long as it don’t involve me whoring miself.
It will involve something much more complicated, but less demeaning. But I doubt you’ll enjoy it any the more.
Out with it, Seyalinn demanded, as she blew out the lamp that hung near the front door. She opened the door and stepped through.
You’ll have to steal his wagon.
Seyalinn arched her head skyward and saw the storm clouds scudding across a dark night sky. She took in a deep breath. Point the way, boy. We’ve no time to stand here and enjoy the night air.
Six knights rode their tired horses out of the Bokrh Forest and into the Eastern Plain of Glyssia. They had driven the horses hard for two days and were relieved to finally be out of the dense and treacherous woods and away from its towering breerwood trees before night descended. The darkening sky signified the hour of full twilight, and storm clouds in the distance threatened rain. It would take another half-day’s journey to reach their destination, but they were glad to be away from Prybbia and treading once again on Glyssian ground.
Though spent and ravenous, the men rode on with a certain urgency. They were all that remained of the renowned Outer Guard, the feared first line of defense against enemies of the Glyssian Realm. The recent Battle of Aklon had reduced that famed host from nearly three thousand to these six tired and hungry knights.
The six now made haste for their homeland. They had survived the horrors of battle and the subsequent travails of a punishing two-week flight that had taken them across the empty desert stretches of the Barrens of Darmutt, up and down the perilous slopes of Mount Krune, and through the savage Freelands, whose men still followed the primeval custom of skinning and gutting wanderers for sport, and, some would say, sustenance. They had gone three days without food, and the last they had eaten was no more than three or four morsels apiece and a few swallows of what remained of the old wine one of the knights held in his possession.
As they entered the vast plain that bordered the Village of Heth, one of them decided to break the long silence. He was a late member of the Outer Guard, newly sworn to the king and ranked at the lowest level. With some effort he delivered a breathless sentence that was peppered with the dialect of the Usigii, one of many peoples who inhabited the Tooth, the southernmost province of Glyssia and also its poorest.
“Horses be needing to quench their thirst afore long. I say we make for the stream, to the west, before we be traveling to Heth.”
The others, men of higher rank unaccustomed to granting the requests of underlings, ignored him. They rode on, gliding across the dry yellow shortgrass toward the fogs of Heth Village. Before long, the lowly knight spoke up again.
&nb
sp; “I’m be starved!” he protested, pitching his voice almost to a shout. “There are grains be grown on fields at the edges of this very plain. Please! We must stop.”
After silence greeted him again, the young knight slowed his horse to a trot. The five knights ahead of him slowed as well, the chiefest among them rounding his steed with such force that the animal reared up and whinnied in protest. The man, the Outer Guard’s Knight at the Head, made his way to his disgruntled subordinate, whose horse now stood motionless.
The lowly knight spoke first. “Sir Jerreb, I meant not to annoy you. I’m just famished is all. And the horses’ll do us no good dead of thirst, as soon they’ll be.”
Jerreb of Rivencrest sat composed, his watchful eyes gazing beyond his young knight to scan the forest they had recently left behind. A mild breeze stirred, fluttering the ends of his raven tresses. He shifted his eyes from the forest to his man and spoke his first words in nearly a full day. “Eastern Plain is no place to tarry. I shouldn’t have to remind you, Ellerick, that we’re being pursued by relentless killers.”
“Sir, I assure you, they’re yet a day’s ride or more behind us. Their massive destriers’ll make certain of that. Surely you can allow us to stop for a wee bite, and a drink besides.” He was a slender fellow, Ellerick, but strong and able enough for his slight size, as he had proven in many a mock battle and more recently on the fields of Aklon. As thin as he was, Ellerick bore his armor like an ill-fitting cloak, unlike Jerreb, whose breastplate and segmented shoulder armor snugged against his massive form as though he’d been born into them.
Jerreb directed his gaze toward the misty blue-gray mountains in the distance while tightening his grip on the reins. He gave a long sigh and again set eyes on Ellerick. “We’ve been slaughtered very nearly to the last man, from our Knight Master Shield down to the least foot soldier. I refuse to lose another man among us six, least of all myself. We’ve no time for food or drink. The horses will have their fill in Heth. It’s time we press on.”
Ellerick fixed him with such a pathetic expression that he was forced to add, “But if you insist …”
The young Usigiian watched as Jerreb dug into his saddlebag of fine leatherwork and withdrew a stale piece of rye bread that had been cut from a dark loaf. The bread went sailing through the air toward him. He caught it sure and began devouring the hard chunk with abandon.
“Have your fill,” Jerreb said, eyeing Ellerick with not a little contempt. “But make it quick, for as to your notion that we’re a day’s ride or more ahead of them, take thought that their accursed Ivull dogs will trail our scent to the very castle gate regardless of the distance we’ve put between us. Of that I’m certain.”
“And the Riders of the Dread Order of that bloody tyrant Farisin are not likely to let up in the hunt,” added Knight Commander Sendin of Livlee, who was walking his horse to the two men.
“True enough,” Jerreb replied, turning his courser toward the approaching knight. “We’ve already seen what they’re capable of. Feats of savagery that seem to have been aided by one form of sorcery or another.”
“Aye,” Sendin put in, stroking his full red beard. “Sorcery indeed. Why else would many of our men begin to clutch at their throats as their eyes popped like crushed grapes in their sockets, or the hot blood came pouring from their very ears with nary a hand or weapon put against them? I tell you I have seen nothing like it, but surely I have heard tales of such things in mi boyhood.”
“We face a new kind of enemy, Sendin,” said Jerreb. “An enemy bent on numbering us among the Glyssian corpses that now dot the fields of Aklon.” His eyes were as blue as the violent waters of the Nelms Sea beyond Ryseland and just as frigid. He set them on Ellerick. “Now, Ellerick, unless you intend to see us off to the netherworld by tarrying here, we’d better be on our way. Are you through?”
Ellerick gave a sour belch and thumped his chest twice. “Quite through, sir. Quite through.”
Jerreb pointed his horse east, dug his heels into its flanks, and sprinted toward the Village of Heth. The others followed, each rider urging his horse forward until they rode six abreast once more, a neat line of gilt armor and white coursers making its way across a vast plain that would soon be enveloped by the dark of night.
The high vassor stared through the council room window and watched the clouds of a distant gathering storm roil against the purple twilight sky. Behind him, Primus Vayjun rubbed his pale thumb over the ruby stone that was set in the platinum ring of his order.
“War is upon us, my lord,” said Primus Vayjun.
“You state the obvious, Vayjun,” the high vassor replied. “Was our assault on Aklon not indication enough for you? Have you forgotten that it was on your report that we chose this moment to strike? As always, I wonder how you ever became a sapient, much less primus. But never mind. What’s the news from beyond?”
Vayjun settled into an oak chair at the council table. He steepled his fingers in front of his face and pretended not to hear the high vassor’s insult. “Nothing that will comfort you, my lord. But my eyes and ears abroad have sent back word that the men of the plain are marshalling toward Storms Reach as we speak. They’ve gathered a good number of others to their ranks as well. Fifteen thousand bodies, seasoned warriors and desperate hired hands alike.”
“No small feat raising that many,” the high vassor said, speaking mostly to himself. He turned from the window and searched Vayjun’s face with his eyes, as if answers to the many questions that now plagued him rested there. He felt as though his mind had been failing him of late. With a questioning look, he said, “Men of the plain. Refresh me, Vayjun.”
Vayjun placed an arm on the table and began drumming his fingers against the stone tabletop. “The Plain of Dremsa, my lord. The easternmost part of the Freelands, west of Bokrh Forest, in the corner formed by the Prybbian and Glyssian Realms.”
“And these men?”
“Just as you are sworn to hold the edge of the Glyssian Realm, the men of the plain will protect the Freelands at any cost. Your knights had to ride through the Plain of Dremsa to enter Prybbia. No doubt that gilded horde caused quite a stir.”
“We have no quarrel with these men of the plain,” the high vassor said.
“They need not understand the politics of a war—who started it, what brought it on, who is allied with whom. When war is afoot, they are game to take part. It’s the spoils of war that entice them to it, not affairs of state.”
“No matter. We’ll hold them off with our reserves, and the Outer Guard will deal with them when they return from their victory in Aklon. These men of the plain will fall like flies before Sir Jerreb and the gilded horde, as you put it.”
“As I hear it, Lord Farisin has promised them fair lands in our realm,” Vayjun said. “That is, the Dread Lord Farisin.”
The high vassor gave the primus a wry smile. “Ah yes, he’s added to his title to further frighten the commonborn.”
Vayjun didn’t smile back. “Despite your confidence in your Outer Guard, he means to unseat the king and unite the two great realms once more. The men of the plain are said to be fiercely loyal to him.”
“If these men of the plain care nothing about the politics of war, then how came they to strike a bargain with Aklon to move against us? And if, as you say, their objective is to hold the edge of their lands as I do that of our realm, how then were my knights allowed to pass so freely?”
Vayjun shifted uncomfortably in his seat again and gazed down at the legs of the oak chair. “You should look into having your chief keeper replace these infernal things. This chair is apt to give me a butt sore.”
The high vassor stepped away from the window. “Primus Vayjun, I have put two questions to you. You will please answer them.”
Vayjun glanced at the high marble ceiling as if he were seeing it for the first time. “I’m not exactly clear on all the details, Prichard, but—”
“I am Lord of High Court,” the High Vassor thundered. “Y
ou will address me as high vassor or lord. Fail to do so and I will have you stripped of your post.”
Vayjun’s eyes left the marble ceiling and focused on the high vassor. “You cannot unseat a primus … my lord. Even the king himself has not power enough to bend the rules of our order.”
“Were the king not so ill I’d suggest that he test that notion.”
There was a gentle rapping at the door. The high vassor moved away from the window and approached a tall council chair at the head of the stone table and said, “Come.”
The castle steward entered. “The senior scout of the Outer Guard has returned, my lord,” he said to the high vassor. “He insists that he see you at once about an urgent report.”
“Send him in,” the high vassor said. The steward bowed and left the room.
The high vassor sat down and gave a long sigh. “Just what I need, more reports,” he muttered. “I hope this one reaches my ears with more honey than your pickled news, Vayjun.”
“Doubtful,” Primus Vayjun murmured absently. He was staring at his ring, contemplating the dark red ruby.
The high vassor paid him no mind. When the scout entered, the high vassor rose to his feet and placed his palms against the cold stone tabletop. “Vayjun, leave us,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the scout.
“I’ll do no such thing,” Primus Vayjun replied. “This report involves the Valiant Order as much as it does the Office of the High Vassor.” He regarded the scout, a tall, pink-faced youth of about eighteen. Vayjun thought him a deal too scraggly and scruffy for one employed by the castle and expected to represent it in the field. “What manner of scout are you, boy?” he demanded.
The youth blushed and his mouth moved once or twice before anything came out of it. “Senior scout, sir.”
Vayjun didn’t try to hide his distaste. If this common knave was a senior scout, it spoke ill of the post. And why castle officials insisted on filling the castle with commonborn youths was another puzzle.
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