Blackest Knights

by Phipps, C. T.

  Xaxar returned from the vision standing up, his axe in his fists, his wind rising and screaming. He raised his axe high in the air, and the army behind him snapped to attention, slamming their weapons on their shields and snarling out a cry. “Surround it!” he commanded. They broke rank, stomping in chaotic bunches all around the pub. They slammed their shields again and grunted, snapping into ordered file once again and standing motionless, awaiting further commands.

  He turned to his wolf commanders, “If he kills me in the pub, destroy him. Rip the place down around him and drag his body behind your ranks all the way back to the Temple.” He turned to look once more at the pub, bathed in warmth and summer clime. “If I come out unharmed, I will be coming out with him. Break rank and retreat. Wait for me one day’s travel to the west. If I am gone from you for more than two days, leave for the Temple. If he comes to you with my body and my axe, let him pass without harm.”

  “As you command, so shall it be,” the alpha officer growled.

  Xaxar turned to his beloved mount. “He has not brought a mount with him. I will not meet him on one either. You must go with the army while I face him.” His wolf whimpered. “I will not hear of it. I will not face him with any advantage. You will go as commanded. This is my will and the will of Bluxho.” The massive beast lowered her head, and Xaxar scratched her neck, his arm disappearing under the thick mane of fur.

  Xaxar breathed slowly as he stepped to the pub door. He prayed that he not fail in this test of faith and prowess. He prayed for wisdom in facing this enemy, and he prayed that his storm would continue as he left it, for this would be his first time indoors for nearly ten years. Xaxar kicked the door open and stomped in.

  The pub was warm and bathed in light from many torches and a large roaring fire. The wind outside began to die down to a slight breeze. Fear draped itself across his shoulders, weakening him. His stomach knotted, and his fist flexed on its own.

  Havoc sat at a table close to the fire, a meal set out before him. An empty chair sat across from him. Xaxar stepped up to the table, looking down at the large man.

  Havoc’s hair was just like his own. The face was very similar, and his eyes were the same. Xaxar was a bit taller.

  “Sit, share a meal with me before we are called to our duty,” Havoc said, waving his arm out over the spread.

  Xaxar slapped his mug over, throwing ale in a fine spray on the meal. “I will not eat with you. I will not drink with you. I am here to kill you, Havoc of Cor-lyn-ber. For crimes against the mighty Bluxho, I will lay you low and send your body to your church.”

  “For crimes against your goddess, or crimes against you?” Havoc asked.

  The question hit Xaxar like a punch to the stomach, taking the breath from him and leaving him speechless. “Will you deny that killing me would bring you satisfaction?” Havoc asked.

  “I will serve my goddess before myself. But I will admit, I am looking forward to this fight. I think you will find your son has become quite a force of destruction and power.” Xaxar immediately regretted calling himself Havoc’s son. Frustration gripped him, and he tried to release it, but he could not. His storm outside was miles away. He cast his mind to his skies outside. The sun had begun to break through the clouds. Anger lifted in his chest like a surging wave. He wanted to reach across the table and grab Havoc by the neck, storm across the pub to the door and toss him outside into the tempest. But he knew Cor-lyn-ber loved Havoc and dealing with his father would not be as easy as that. The word “father” had crept into his thoughts again, and he shook his head. The room around him wobbled. His emotions were overcoming him.

  “The church of Bluxho demands to know why Cor-lyn-ber has waged this war.”

  “Cor-lyn-ber wishes no war with Bluxho. He does not serve his own aims in this battle, but mine.” Havoc took in a long, quiet breath and Xaxar saw the weight of years on his face suddenly. “I hunted down Braison and Asrais for one very simple purpose, to draw you out.”

  “So you could kill me, as you did my brother Raze,” Xaxar said. His fist flexed again, and he could not stop it from slamming down hard on the table between them.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” The question left his mouth weakly, pleadingly. Xaxar hated the emotion in his voice. “Why would you hunt your children?” He felt the word “daddy” on his lips, and his heart surged with black hate.

  “I failed you both,” Havoc said. He lowered his gaze from Xaxar’s searching eyes. Xaxar thought he looked old. “I was to take you with me on my quests in the name of Cor-lyn-ber. He gave you both to me so I could raise you to be his warriors or clergy. I was to instruct you on his teachings and raise you on the battlefield. But I chose to leave you behind in an orphanage, unaware it was full of heretics who mistreated you.”

  “Who whipped us, starved us, in every way dominated us and used us for their pleasure!” Xaxar said. His hand twitched toward his axe handle.

  “You ran away from the arms of Cor-lyn-ber out into a world of rage and crime. My neglect caused the two of you to victimize the world, you with your destructive storms, and Ralagak, with his deeds in the name of money and power. The two of you became plagues on this world instead of its defenders. It was your birthright to stand beside me, not in opposition to me.”

  “So, if you failed us, why do you hunt us?” A brief vision flickered before Xaxar’s eyes, a life of servitude to Cor-lyn-ber, a life of light and hope instead of destruction and rage, a life with the love of his father around him, a real family to help him face the world and its pitfalls. The vision came to him quickly and without warning, as if forced upon him by some outside party, and he felt the hand of Cor-lyn-ber in it. He reached out for Bluxho and could not find her. He realized his goddess could not touch this place. He had made a mistake in coming here.

  “I have been given the chance to right my greatest wrong,” Havoc said. “In His mercy, He has allowed me to attempt to correct my worst sin by letting me ease the suffering it’s caused. My neglect drove you to a life of destruction and rage. I am here to deliver you and the world from that fate. No others will suffer at the hands of your storms, and the world will be a better place for it.” Havoc looked deep in the eyes of Xaxar and spoke with conviction and passion. “But you can still forego this fate. Come to the arms of Cor-lyn-ber, and the lives of those you have ended will be in peace. Come to the church of Light, Hope, and Honor, and you may still fight at my side and with my instruction. Come to me son, and you will be forgiven.”

  The building around Xaxar pressed him, finding the soft space in his heart that wished for a life of peace. It began to seep into him, warming him and urging him.

  “Be with me, Mother of Rage and Storms,” Xaxar whispered below his breath. He desperately searched for his goddess but could not find her in his midst. The world went quiet, and he searched for anything to give him direction. Icicles began dripping on the next building.

  Rage burst in his chest, fueled by years of hate and loneliness. Heat rose across his back like wings of flame. He looked Havoc in the eyes as the wind outside rose to a whine. “You have business with the High Marshal of Storms. I will be waiting for you outside. Say your prayers to your god. Make your peace with the world, then come and face me.” Xaxar hefted his axe and stomped out of the pub.

  Warm winds smacked him in the face. He screamed up to the heavens and slammed the head of his axe down into the cobbled street. The street exploded. Ice spread from the axe in a wave, freezing the roads and rocking the houses.

  A gale cut across the town, pulling rubble from the houses and frozen cornhusks from the fields. The wind whistled around the houses, ripping shutters and throwing them. It wrapped the small village in a whirlwind of frozen corn and broken wood that rattled and cracked against the ground. The winds slammed the pub door closed with a crack. The door shuddered on its hinges, splitting up the middle but holding shape.

  Xaxar wrenched his axe from the street, ripping up the stones around it. He stepped in
to the town square, turned to face the sturdy little pub, and crossed his arms. The temperature slowly declined below freezing. The sky thundered above him, and lightning struck the fields.

  Above the sound of the whirlwind, between the slamming lightning bolts, a choir of howls lifted into the air. Their bone-chilling sound rattled around the town. The army stomped in unison, slammed their weapons on the faces of their shields, and turned to face their commander. They lifted their weapons in salute and marched out of the town.

  The clergy approached Xaxar. They dropped to their knees, praying around him in a cacophony of screams and howls. Xaxar stood in their midst. The storm rose to a beautiful hurricane of ice, the adoration of his goddess wrapping around him. He lifted his rage to her, and she thrashed it on the world around him. The door to the pub opened and Havoc filled the frame. His shadow cut into the storm and fell on the clergy at Xaxar’s feet.

  Xaxar brought the handle of his axe down on the ground, and the clergy lifted their heads. Their prayers died in their throats.

  “Leave me with him. I am ready.” The nineteen priests rose to their feet and left the village, joining the retreating army and leaving the warriors of Bluxho and of Cor-lyn-ber in the city alone.

  Havoc stepped out into the street. Xaxar waited for him to slip on the ice, for some reaction, some slowing of progress, but Havoc’s boots were fitted with gripping spikes. A black cloak trimmed in dark gray fur covered his entire body. Havoc threw open his cloak, his thick breastplate decorated with the crest of Cor-lyn-ber. This image Xaxar knew well. It haunted his dreams and his hate. The two companion eagles of Cor-lyn-ber, the eagle of war and the eagle of wisdom, both stared forward. Together they held the shield, the left talon of the left eagle held a sword, and the right talon of the right eagle held a book.

  “You know why I am here?” Havoc asked, stating his business before the goddess Bluxho as well as Xaxar.

  “You wish to right your wrong by eradicating your young,” Xaxar said calmly. Thunder rolled above their heads.

  “The one great sin of my life caused harm to the world. Raze was a murderer and a criminal. You are a destroyer of fields, homes, and lives. You are cold and cruel and have killed thousands beyond number in frost and starvation. There can be no rest for my soul until either you slay me, or I slay you.”

  Xaxar smiled. “Fine, Havoc, I will meet you in battle. Not because I care for the condition of your soul, or your standing with your god. I fight you because the deaths of the warriors and clergy of the mighty and terrible Bluxho must be answered.”

  Havoc pulled his dagger from behind his back. “I am proud to call you son, and am sorry that your greatness suffered because of my actions.”

  “I believe you will learn of my greatness this day, Havoc.”

  The two warriors stepped back and saluted one another with their weapons, bringing the blades to their foreheads and closing their eyes for a moment.

  They began to circle. Havoc made a quick burst to the left with a glance to the right. Xaxar knew a feint was in the attack but did not know which way. He backed away instead of chancing a mistake.

  Havoc sliced up, nearly catching Xaxar’s face. Xaxar slapped his axe out before Havoc could bring his knife down. He stumbled backwards and Xaxar stepped forward, plunging out with the head of the axe, taking the end and thrusting out at Havoc. His axe hit and drove Havoc back farther.

  Xaxar lifted his axe high in one massive swipe meant to end the battle. But Havoc had taken a knee and was praying. Xaxar had made a mistake.

  His axe blade sailed toward its target. Havoc lifted his arm and blocked the blow. The ringing of metal filled the streets. The steel that protected Havoc’s arm was strong, but it should not have withstood the hit. One blow from Xaxar’s axe had cleaved thicker mails easily. This was no normal mail and indeed adorned no normal man.

  Havoc stood quickly and spun toward Xaxar, stepping in too close for the warrior to get his weapon around. He stabbed out fast and hit Xaxar in the hip. Havoc reversed his momentum and ducked under the axe. He stabbed Xaxar in the other hip and blood flowed heavily.

  Xaxar turned to face Havoc, but Havoc moved with him and was behind Xaxar again. The knife struck Xaxar’s back, then nearly cleaved through the back of his thighs. Xaxar dropped to his knees and Havoc grabbed his hair. The blade of Cor-lyn-ber would come around to his throat. He was losing this battle much faster than he thought he would lose to any man.

  Xaxar roared. The temperature dropped forty degrees.

  He reached up and grabbed Havoc’s wrist, stopping the slice that would have killed him. Xaxar roared again. Ice began to form around his fist. It spread quickly, freezing Havoc’s hand to Xaxar’s in a layer of ice three inches thick.

  Havoc let loose of Xaxar’s hair and grabbed his locked arm. He fought for control, about to panic.

  Havoc began to pray.

  Xaxar pulled hard and shifted his weight forward as he did. Havoc flew over his son’s shoulder and landed flat on his back. Xaxar was screaming. Bluxho was listening. The ice that locked the two of them together grew thicker. Havoc prayed, and Cor-lyn-ber took heed. The ice began to crack as his prayers lifted to the heavens.

  Back and forth the two gods fought to answer the prayers of their warriors as the two men struggled for supremacy.

  Havoc rolled, twisting Xaxar’s arm and trying to wrest his way to his feet. Xaxar had dropped his axe. He grabbed his own arm and tried to twist against his father’s roll. Xaxar stepped forward and dropped on Havoc. He stretched out his free hand, wrapped it around Havoc’s neck, and squeezed.

  Havoc prayed.

  The ice shattered as Havoc’s prayers overpowered Xaxar’s and Havoc sliced his knife across Xaxar’s face. The paladin of Bluxho closed his eyes against the flowing blood, the warmth washing down his face. He lifted his knee, planted it on Havoc’s chest, and screamed.

  From the air came a blast of solid ice, like a bolt of lightning, to the outstretched hands of Xaxar. He dropped the ice bolt directly on Havoc’s chest. Instantly, a six-inch wrap of ice encased Havoc from the belt to the neck, pinning him to the ground. Xaxar stumbled backward and wiped his eyes.

  He placed the palms of his hands over his wound. The wound froze closed. He scraped the iced blood out of his eyes and opened them. Havoc still struggled to rise. Xaxar prayed to close the rest of his wounds, freezing them. He was still in horrible pain, but he would no longer bleed.

  Xaxar picked up his axe, hoisting it high above his head. He brought the back of the axe head down hard on the bonds he had made for Havoc, shattering the ice and freeing him. Then he stepped back. Xaxar waited for Havoc to gain his feet again.

  They saluted one another and closed. For hours, the two holy warriors lifted their voices in prayer and their arms in battle. They reached a place in their prayers they had never reached before, a delirium that provided understanding. They began to understand one another through their own pain and exhaustion. They began to respect, then love, one another. Still they fought on. They were men of the gods, and they would let nothing come between them and their deities, even their admiration for each other.

  Havoc blocked a strong swipe of the axe with his arm guard and then brought his dagger around for an attack against the axe handle. His knife sliced cleanly through the handle, and the axe head flew. It whipped through the air and stuck in the side of a house. Xaxar took many steps back.

  Havoc reached behind his back, sheathing his knife. He pulled off his arm guards and his gauntlets and, lifting his fists, entered against Xaxar again. The fast punches hammered hard. Xaxar was backing up, and his back hit wood. Havoc had pinned him against the pub. Havoc slammed on him. The fists were a flurry of pain and Xaxar could barely stay on his feet. Xaxar blocked the punches on his sides. He slammed his head out hard, catching Havoc in the face.

  Havoc stumbled back, but Xaxar held him by the cloak. He drove his head again and again into Havoc’s face, and finally, Havoc collapsed in a pile. Xaxar
turned away and walked to a building that labored under his ice. He snapped off an icicle and returned to Havoc’s side.

  Havoc tried to rise but could not. The blows to the face, mixed with the hours of fighting, had exhausted him.

  Xaxar dropped to a knee beside his father, icicle in his fist.

  “Call to your Cor-lyn-ber, Havoc. Have his name on your lips, and I will send you to him.”

  “I am sorry for failing you,” Havoc stammered.

  “I shall, from this day forward, call myself Xaxar Trendakale, son of Havoc. You have fallen at my hands, with an apology on your lips. You are absolved.”

  Havoc nodded. He began to pray, and he went to the arms of his god.

  Xaxar closed Havoc’s eyes and pulled the icicle from his neck. He folded Havoc’s arms over his chest and laid his arm guards and gauntlets on his chest. He screamed out to his goddess in victory and thanks. He touched Havoc’s chest once more, and ice began to cover the holy warrior. Xaxar prayed there for many minutes, encasing Havoc in a slab of ice.

  He journeyed to the nearest church of Cor-lyn-ber and left his father there. Over his soul came a peace he had not felt in any time he could remember.

  Honor is Just a Word

  By C. T. Phipps

  This takes place as part of the Wraith Knight series.

  I stared at the ghost that hovered before me, trying not to be annoyed. “Let me understand this, you want me to find your lover?”

  The spirit, a woman of nineteen going on three hundred, hovered above the ground. She was translucent, with a plain white dress and bleached white hair. The ghost was next to an old gnarled tree that had stood there for centuries despite the fact it should have long since died.