"I can use a dagger," said Timlin. "But I'm looking for the Blood Legion, as I said. That's the only work I want."
"There is a lot of work around here for thieves and assassins," said Brelth. "But with your small build, you don't look like much of a fighter. You're likely to be ignored. And the Blood Legion? I doubt they would even glance your way. I'm offering you an honest job with good pay. Fish by day, drink ale at night. What more could a man ask for in life?"
Timlin kept glancing at the fried fish. "I don't want to be a thief or an assassin. I want to be a Legion Soldier."
Brelth grinned slyly. "I can see you really want some food--more than anything right now, I'll bet. I'll make you a deal. Come to work on my boat killing eels, and I'll order you your own platter of fish. And another ale along with it."
Timlin considered it. He did need work, at least until he could meet with the Blood Legion, and the job sounded mildly exciting. And he felt like he was starving. "I guess I'll accept that offer. When do I start?"
"I've got to get you prepared," said Brelth. "Meet me by the East Docks this evening, just after the sun goes down. My boat should be in by then, and you can meet my crew. Then, you can begin tomorrow at sunrise."
"I'll be there," said Timlin.
Brelth grinned. "You will have no regrets."
***
The sun had gone down across the water, and many stars were visible in the sky, as Timlin sat on a crate and waited. Several fishing boats had already docked and unloaded, and now the area stood silent and empty save for an occasional splash of some fish or other water creature. The smell of wood smoke drifted to his nostrils, as he shivered in the chill night air.
Timlin wasn't fond of the prospect of working a common job, for that wasn't why he'd left Dremlock. He realized he could get caught up in an endless cycle of working and spending whatever money he earned--until he grew old and feeble and any hope for a better life was gone. Poverty seemed like trap that few could escape, the reality of always having to worry about one's next meal. Timlin possessed fantastic skills, yet he seemed unable to find a use for them beyond petty theft. No one seemed to listen to him when he bragged of his abilities, and when he spoke of his desire to join the Blood Legion, people quickly changed the subject or moved away from him. Finding a good career--even in crime--was very difficult. It seemed a lucky break was required to even get someone to notice you.
This line of thought made Timlin realize how fortunate he'd been to be chosen as a Squire by Dremlock. He'd been given a chance to be a Divine Knight and make his fortune--and had thrown it away, firmly believing he would instantly be taken in by the Blood Legion. He wondered how he could have been so foolish, considering he'd grown up in poverty and knew how difficult it was to escape its hold.
Timlin was lucky to have survived childhood--the long years of torment. In his nightmares, he found himself again facing the cruel whip and endless hours imprisoned beneath the cold ground. The torture and loss he'd endured had left him cynical and bitter toward life. Yet life had tried to redeem itself in his eyes, giving him a chance to ride with the Divine Knights--giving him unique skills to secure his future at Dremlock. But the bitter shadows of the past had managed to tear him down once again. He hated himself more than he hated the Knights of Dremlock--the Knights who had failed miserably to protect him when he was a child. Timlin knew that hating all Knights for the actions of a few was not logical. He'd tried to forgive them and even to become one of them, but somehow his mind and soul had never escaped the dark pit in the ground he'd once called home.
Regardless, Timlin needed a job if he wanted to eat. And so he continued to sit and wait. The area was growing very dark, and still no boat appeared. Timlin began to feel uneasy, wondering if he'd been tricked. It made no sense, considering he had no money. Still, he sat and waited.
Just when he was about to give up, he caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. He leapt up, hand on his Flayer. A tall figure stood on the dock, concealed by the evening shadows.
"Is that you, Brelth?" said Timlin, chills creeping over his flesh. "I was starting to think you weren't going to show up. Where's your boat?"
A quiet laugh greeted Timlin's ears. "Whoever you were hoping to meet has not come." The man lit a torch, revealing a large figure in dark clothing. A black hood covered his face and he held a gleaming, curved sword. Timlin could tell it was a man by the tone of his voice and the look of his hands.
'What do you want?" said Timlin. "If you're here to rob me, you're wasting your time. I have no money."
"Maybe I just want to kill you," said the stranger.
Rage surged through Timlin, diminishing his fear. "Go ahead and try it. I want you to. You obviously don't know who you're dealing with."
"You want me to attack you?" said the man.
His good sense overcome by anger, Timlin nodded.
"Then defend yourself!" snarled the man. With that, he lunged toward Timlin, swinging his sword at the boy's neck.
Timlin easily evaded the stroke and darted in, slashing the man's face and slicing it open through the hood. The stranger took a step backwards.
"You want to try that again?" said Timlin, trembling with rage. "Next time it will be your throat that gets cut."
"I can't believe you landed a blow!" the stranger muttered, shaking his head. "You're going to pay dearly for that!"
The stranger swung at Timlin again, and Timlin blocked with his Flayer. The curved blades were locked together for a moment, and then the stranger shoved Timlin down. Timlin rolled over smoothly and stood up.
"Well done," said the stranger. "You fight with great skill. But now I must put an end to this." He whistled, and two more large men, wearing hoods, appeared in the torchlight. The three of them charged at Timlin.
Timlin slashed out with his Flayer, but the stroke was deflected by a sword. He struck again and caught one man in the shoulder, ripping it open. But the other two men overpowered him and seized his arms.
The man with the wounded shoulder touched the gash, his hand coming away covered in blood. "I'm impressed. You're quite the dangerous little devil, as you could have cut off my head had I been a bit slower in evading. As it is, I'm feeling the sting from your blade."
"I said I have no money!" Timlin yelled. "So let go of me!"
The man with the hurt shoulder leaned close to Timlin. "Money? Who cares about that? Maybe we like to kill for pleasure."
Timlin spit at him. "You're all cowards for fighting three against one."
"You wanted to find the Blood Legion," said the stranger. "And so you have. Now what?"
Timlin's mouth dropped open. "You're from the Blood Legion?"
The man yanked off his hood, revealing a black beard and scarred face. It was Brelth, the supposed fisherman. He smiled.
"But why did you attack me?" Timlin asked.
"Just a minor test," said Brelth. "We know who you are, but we are still required to test potential recruits. But I must say that we were not expecting you to be that skilled, considering you're a Squire. Your speed is extraordinary, and you could easily have killed one or more of us. And we are very well-trained fighters."
"What should I do now?" said Timlin, his heart pounding with excitement. It seemed his fortune was about to take a huge turn for the better.
"We will guide you to a hideout," said Brelth, "where Legion Soldiers will be waiting. From there, the Legion Masters will decide how your skills will be used and what training you shall receive. But based on what I've seen, you can expect good things in your future." He smiled. "I must say--I'm very excited about finding such a fine prospect."
"Thank you," said Timlin. "I will do my best to serve."
"You will go far," said Brelth. "The dark path will open wide before you, Timlin Woodmaster. You have found your destiny."
Chapter 12: The Festival of Fire
After the grim events in the mines, the search party regrouped at Dremlock. The Temple of Oracles had indeed
led Lannon and his defenders out of the mountain, and from there, they encountered no more trouble on the winding road back to the kingdom. They were delighted to find that the others had survived the grasp of the Dark Mothers, but the celebration was diminished by the news that Willan had not reported back from the mines. Several search parties were sent--without Lannon and his Divine Shield, in spite of Lannon's request to join the search--but they could find no trace of him. After a week had passed, they concluded Willan was dead and held a funeral for him in the Sacred Temple.
Spring was giving way to the warmth of summer, and Dremlock was in a festive mood in spite of the recent happenings. Grim events were always taking place at Dremlock and didn't stop the periodic celebrations. The kingdom was hard at work preparing for the Festival of Fire, which was designed to honor the Birlotes who had lent support to Dremlock. The Festival consisted of a great feast held outdoors on the West Tower Training Grounds, where the Color Trials and other important events usually took place. The table-filled courtyard would be lit by Birlote torches, which had given the Festival its name. Birlote archers and sorcerers would perform tricks for the crowd.
But Lannon Sunshield was not in a festive mood at all, and neither was Taris Warhawk. Taris' health had not improved enough for him to attempt the journey to his homeland of Borenthia. He was so weak he could barely get out of bed, and many were afraid he would die on a long journey home. Only the sorcerer's immense will seemed to be keeping him alive.
Lannon stood by Taris' bed one morning, with his guards waiting outside the room. He gazed down in shock at the Birlote sorcerer. Taris' face seemed half covered in squirming shadows, and his left eye had turned permanently yellow. He was very gaunt and seemed barely able to move.
The room was dark, the window shutters drawn in spite of the warm, sunny day. A chill seemed to hang in the air. Candles burned in niches in the stone walls, and the smell of Birlote incense was strong. The atmosphere was so somber that Lannon almost felt like he stood in a tomb.
"We may soon ride to the Bonefrost Mountains," said Lannon. "Hopefully, we'll bring back the Hand of Tharnin."
Taris managed a smile. "I would expect nothing less. However, there is a real possibility I may be dead before you return. I know that's not what you want to hear, but you need to realize the truth and be prepared for it."
Lannon sighed in frustration. "I just wish there was some way to help you. I mean, some easier way."
"I'm not fond of the prospect of dying," said Taris. "I'm still young by Birlote standards and feel I have much yet to accomplish in life. It seems unfair. Of course, what can I do other than complain? Being forced to surrender one's life is always unpleasant. So I've chosen simply to fight to my last breath. At least I can die knowing I did that much."
"But there must be a way to cure you!" Lannon insisted. "We were so close to having the gauntlet in our possession..."
"You can't control everything," said Taris. "Life is fleeting, Lannon. Do what you can, but don't be disappointed if you fail."
"If you're dead when I return," said Lannon, "I will be very disappointed."
"How do you know you'll return?" said Taris.
"What do you mean?" said Lannon, chilled by Taris' words.
Taris gave Lannon a piercing stare. "You must understand the reality of the situation. Jace was wrong to assume the gauntlet wouldn't favor a warrior like Vorden, and I should never have listened to him. My belief is that Vorden will be far more powerful than Vellera the simple farmer was. His Knightly skills will enhance the power of the Hand of Tharnin. He will be nearly invincible. The encounter in the mines--the sparing of your life by Vorden--was, among other things, likely a plot to draw you north with an elite company of Knights. Whoever Vorden's master is, he is very confident that he will score a great victory in the Bonefrost Mountains and leave Dremlock severely weakened."
"Then you're saying I shouldn't go?" said Lannon.
"You have to go," said Taris, "or Dremlock will not survive. And when you go, you may have to confront Vorden and find a way to defeat him. You won't be able to take him prisoner. You'll have to kill him."
"I can't kill him," said Lannon. "He's my friend."
Taris clutched Lannon's wrist with a trembling hand. "This isn't Timlin we're talking about. Vorden has likely become a Black Knight of Tharnin. If you don't give full effort, you stand no chance against him. He will burn you to ash and that will be the end of Lannon Sunshield and his Eye of Divinity."
Lannon nodded. "I'll do what I must, Master Taris."
Taris released him, his eyes closing for a moment. "I know you will. But it still might not be enough. It could take all the strength that Dremlock possesses to defeat Vorden and his Blood Legion. We are weak right now, and our foes are very strong. You've come to Dremlock during one of our darkest periods, when our survival is truly in doubt. The Goblin Lords were just a sign of things to come. The Deep Shadow has gained an edge over us recently. You were brought to the kingdom to tip the scales in our favor, but it hasn't happened yet. The Hand of Tharnin is only one of many grave threats that I believe will be revealed in the months and years to come."
"Any advice on what I should do?" asked Lannon.
"Keep practicing with the Eye," said Taris. "Push yourself until you're exhausted, every day. It will be weeks before Dremlock confronts the Blood Legion. You should grow stronger during that time. Also, prepare yourself mentally to kill Vorden. Visualize yourself slaying him in your mind."
Lannon shuddered. "Taris, I don't want to visualize that!"
"Of course you don't," said Taris, "but you must. Hopefully, you will not have to face him. Dremlock is filled with Knights who can do that for you. But we both know our foes take a special interest in you. The chances are high that Vorden will confront you--if only because he is, or was, your friend. You can expect the battle in the Bonefrost Mountains to be different than the confrontation with Vellera. This will be a full-scale assault, with the Knights prepared for war. That means heavy lances will be involved and siege engines. Much of the fighting could take place from a distance. Yet in spite of all that, it could easily come down to you and Vorden locked in combat--and rest assured, it will be a duel to the death."
"I'll do my best to prepare," said Lannon.
"It's a shame," said Taris, "that a young Squire like you should bear so many burdens. But it has happened many times in Dremlock's history. Valuable Squires--usually talented Birlotes--pushed too early and often into combat. If only you had the will and mindset of a Birlote, things would be a bit easier for you. But Noracks are weak against the forces of Tharnin. If I was a Norack, I would be dead from this wound. I would have died the very night it was inflicted upon me. The light and dark skinned folk are easily enslaved by Tharnin."
"Not all of them," said Lannon, thinking of his father. Lannon had received a letter recently from his parents and had learned that his father was still resisting his own infection of dark sorcery and was doing relatively well. Of course, Lannon suspected his father's illness was far weaker than what Taris was dealing with.
"No, not all of them," Taris agreed. "I heard about your father's courageous struggle. He must have a very strong will."
"And Furlus has survived his wound," said Lannon. "In fact, he's walking around better every day. How has he been able to heal?"
"I suspected Furlus would recover," said Taris. "While Birlotes have strong resistance against the Deep Shadow, the Grey Dwarves are nearly immune to it. The Olrogs were once servants of Tharnin, and that changed them forever. The dark sorcery did not affect Furlus so much as the actual wound. His wound was much worse than mine, but the sorcery barely affected him at all--whereas it is slowly killing me."
"You need some Olrog blood in you," said Lannon, smiling.
Taris grimaced. "My blood is fine as it is. Olrog blood? I'm sure Furlus would love to hear you say that."
"Sorry," said Lannon. "I just meant..."
"You should go and train," sa
id Taris. "You might be under the protection of the Divine Shield and free from normal training, but that's no reason to sit around all day doing nothing. Use your time wisely."
"I will," said Lannon. "You just keep working on feeling better. You're going to make a full recovery if I have my way."
But Taris didn't answer. He lay with his eyes closed, engaged in his terrible internal struggle to stay alive.
***
While Dremlock was preparing for the Festival of Fire, in the southern city of Silvergate, Timlin was still wondering if he'd made a grave mistake. Unlike the Knights of Dremlock, the Legion Soldiers seemed wild and fanatical, obeying rules Timlin couldn't comprehend. On the dock, the Soldiers had praised his skills and left him feeling reassured he would have an easy time of things, but once he arrived at the Legion hideout, he began to feel that his life meant nothing to these cold-hearted warriors.
The hideout was below a tavern underground, in a very dangerous area of the city, and it consisted of several rooms with passages that led into the sewers. Timlin was assigned an instructor. He was ordered not to speak to anyone but his instructor. His rank was apparently the lowest of the low, which left him disgruntled. He had expected better treatment.
Timlin's instructor was named Vebbeas. He was a tall man with silver hair and cold eyes, his face weathered and sullen in the lantern light. "You were chosen as a potential recruit," he said. "But I would like to know why. The Legion favors men of large build and great strength."
They stood alone in a training room with weapons and armor on racks along the walls. Vebbeas didn't seem to like Timlin. He glared at the lad, his arms folded across his chest, and his demeanor put Timlin on the defensive.
Knights: Book 02 - The Hand of Tharnin Page 16
