The Black Knight

The Black Knight

A Dark Fantasy

Written by

Sean Christopher Allen

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2017 Sean Christopher Allen

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free eBook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

~-~~-~

-Table of Contents-

A Note from the Author

1 - Fate’s Dark Prologue

2 - The First Dream

3 - The Man from Valachia

4 - The Legend of the Black Knight and the Mountain

5 - The Last Ride of Alastor and Gawain

6 - On the Road to the Town With No Name

7 - Dreams of Shadows and Echoes

8 - The Knight's Revelation

9 - Destinies of Past, Present and Future

10 - The Return to Halvard

11 - Fallen

12 - Amy's Story

13 - The Man in the Coffin

14 - The Realm of the Dishonored

15 - Reunited

16 - The Battle of Five Kingdoms

17 - The Descent into Madness

18 - Antecedent

19 - Sins and Vices

20 - The Return of the Black Knight

21 - Alastor's Hollow

22 - Fate's Bright Epilogue

23 - The Black Rose

24 - Again into Her Hands

Epilogue - The Last Dream

~-~~-~

A Note from the Author:

The story here contained was written sometime between 2002 and 2007. The exact dates of when I first started and completed my first draft are unknown, but I am certain it is somewhere between those years. Being my first major attempt at writing a fantasy novel, it holds a special place in my heart, and I spent many sleepless nights working on it, hoping it may be my big break into being an honest-to-God writer. However, in 2008 the story, while still being very much part of my heart and soul, was abandoned as events in my life seemed to negate my hopes and dreams.

Now, four years later, new events have brought with them a new necessity, and I feel compelled to release my story to the world, albeit in an unpolished form. Time is working against me, so I make available this book in its most current iteration. There are many things I hope in time to correct. Not the least of which are instances of improper formatting (the result of moving from WordPerfect to OpenOffice to Microsoft Office), mostly minor to intermediate spelling, grammatical and structural errors, overuse of various words (you’d think I owned stock in some of them!) as well as entire scenes that should either have been added, tweaked or, in some cases, removed entirely for the sake of continuity with subsequent stories I have outlined.

Even in a state I am slightly embarrassed to have this book in, I believe that the core is still there, a tale unlike most being released today, and I hope someone, somewhere, in the world enjoys it.

Since I am releasing this eBook version for free (or as dirt cheap as I can release it for), I hope this broadens the number of people who will read it and, if you happen to be one of those people, feel free to drop me a line to the email address below. Let me know what you thought, if you liked it or not, did you get anything out of it… all that traditional feedback most writers want/need/crave. Just please… there is no need to send me a massive email outlining every typo or run-on sentence. I know they are there and, time permitting; they will vanish as I delve into the book with my editor’s cap on.

Who knows…?

Maybe someday The Black Knight could see physical publication, and it’ll be the version I had always envisioned it to be.

S. C. Allen

January 4th, 2012

Saphanels@yahoo.com

Chapter One

Fate’s Dark Prologue

Return to Table of Contents

The Kingdom of Halvard, shining jewel of the heart of man; one of few remaining remnants of good in a long decaying land. Some would call it more of a glorified city than a true kingdom, but long has it endured and many travails has it survived - that is until one moonlit night.

Deep in the halls of the ancient castle which stands at the head of the city, a man waits in the great throne room. The King, imposing in stature and demeanor, paces back and forth in the moonlight. His robes, white with a brown tunic, whip to and fro as he strides. His face reveals a countless and unrelenting stream of emotional conflicts brewing in his mind, waging battle, retreating and starting all over again. He stops for a moment and turns to look upon his throne. A slight smirk plays on his face, but it is a bleak one. Clearly, dark thoughts fill him and he knows it.

The King sighs and continues his lone vigil restlessly.

Aimless.

Worried.

A man waiting for Fate to make up her ever-changing mind.

After what might have been an eternity, the heavy sound of boots striking the stone floor echoes from the outer halls, coming steadily closer to the throne room. The King stops, again facing his throne, except this time to look at a pendant which hangs around his neck. He holds the pendant reverently, rubbing it with his thumb and smiling a bright smile though, unlike before, it is from a genuinely enjoyable memory. The sound of the boots have reached their crescendo, stopping just outside the throne room and, after a pause, a darkly dressed man enters slowly.

Uncle! the man says enthusiastically.

The King raises his head in acknowledgment, his back still turned to the man. He grips the pendant with resolve, grimacing before letting the pendant slip back under his collar and facing the one who has summoned him.

Hector, my nephew. What is so important that we had to meet like this? Could this have not waited until morning?

Alas, Uncle, it could not. It is far too important to merely be lumped into the other affairs of the kingdom.

The King raises an eyebrow to his nephew, annoyed by his presumptuousness.

I do believe I am the judge of what is and is not important. I think you will do well to remember that.

Of course, Uncle. Forgive me, Hector replies with false modesty, but I believe what I have to say warrants it.

The King has his doubts, but nevertheless motions for Hector to come closer. Hector smiles triumphantly.

Well, you have my attention Hector. What is it?

An alliance, Uncle, answers Hector as he holds out a rolled parchment sealed with black wax. One that would benefit the kingdom in incalculable ways.

The King takes the parchment and turns his back on his nephew. His eyes are drawn to the black wax seal. His face grows pale, as one who has seen a ghost while someone walks upon his grave as he learns some forbidden truth. He breaks the seal, opening the scrolled parchment. The handwriting on the parchment is exquisite and at the same time dark and spidery. A script not frequently used. The King’s eyes go dark, as one looking behind mortal sight. He begins walking out of the throne room, through the rear hall, out to the gardens in the center of the castle which, even in the dead of night, feels vibrant with life.

Uncle? Hector calls out, taken aback by the King’s apparent absentmindedness. He races after his uncle, and begins to speak, but the King raises his right hand with authority, interrupting him as though he sensed the coming argument from his nephew.

Do not say a thing.

Once in the garden’s center, the King stops. Hector stands mute behind his Uncle, awaiting a response.

Uncle... Hector begins sheepishly.

Can you possibly comprehend what you are suggesting to me with this letter?

What I am suggesting is an alliance that will ensure Your Highness’ continued reign, and the safety of the kingdom’s people.

Are you merely stupid, or completely insane? An alliance such as the one you offer would wholly condemn those whom I am sworn to protect and rule.

Hector’s eyes race, trying to find the words he needs.

Uncle, you don’t fully comprehend - Hector tries to explain, but the King angrily cuts him off with a dismissive gesture, culminating in the ripping to shreds of the offending letter.

Save your tongue! I have faced the sort of men that reside in the south more than once on the field of battle. The very thought of an alliance is sickening! The only reason you are still even alive right now is out of respect for my brother, the King declares in a half-roar as he looks hard into Hector’s eyes. Clearly he suspects his nephew of foul deeds. This ‘meeting’ is over. I will hear no more of this.

The King lets fall the torn letter, not daring to glance into Hector’s eyes as he begins walking back inside the castle. Hector looks as though he will burst out of anger and fear.

Uncle, do not turn your back on me! Hector yells, unable to suppress his rage.

Infuriated, the King wheels back around to his nephew and storms to within inches from him.

You dare order me, child!?

~-~~-~

In an upper room overlooking the gardens, a young woman with dark brown hair and ivory pale skin is awakened by the shouting. She walks over to her window to see the King and Hector on the verge of trading blows. The King’s eyes fill with wrath and he unsheathes a sword that had been hidden among his robes. The woman watches with apprehension.

~-~~-~

You would draw a blade upon your own blood, Uncle? Hector asks sarcastically.

You ceased to be my blood when you murdered my brother, child.

Hector lets loose a sinister laugh.

You think yourself wise? If you knew the true nature of how my beloved ‘father’ died, why is it you could not foresee what is about to happen?

The King realizes that Hector is no longer looking at him, but at something behind him. The King’s eyes soften. His sword arm falters, falling limply at his side.

Yes, I did know. I just prayed that I was wrong.

You pathetic old fool.

A cloaked man stands with a strange looking blade in his hand. His eyes are of the sort of attractive evil that could render entire kingdoms into his will, and full of the knowledge and wisdom of the unseen world. His skin is unnaturally pale, yet immaculate. His face is like that of the dead, preserved for all eternity in its youthful beauty.

Necromancer, the King utters as he faces him.

The Necromancer smiles widely, but darkly.

Ah, so you remember me? How delightfully quaint, he says venomously.

The King sighs, knowing he has been defeated. He looks up and, out of the corner of his eye, sees the beautiful young woman in the window. The King smiles and laughs slightly to himself.

What could possibly be funny at a time like this? Hector demands, annoyed, glancing at his uncle as if he has gone insane. But, the Necromancer looks concerned, as though there was some variable he did not think of. No matter. It ends for you tonight, Uncle. This kingdom will be mine now, concludes Hector as he unsheathes a small blade.

Suddenly the King looks up at the woman in the window and yells, Go! Leave this place and find Him!

The Necromancer swiftly plunges his blade into the King’s stomach as he looks to where the King was looking. The woman cries out in horror as she locks eyes with the Necromancer.

The Princess! the Necromancer shouts, Go get her, you fool!

Hector does not take kindly to being called a fool, but quickly follows orders, running back into the throne room.

Now alone with the King, the Necromancer pulls his blade from him and pushes the once great man to the ground, laughing slow and maniacally.

Oh, what a poor, diluted buffoon, is he not? But, your nephew does make a good servant... when he does not have his little fantasies about betraying me that is. The Necromancer muses as he kneels down and looks the King deeply in the eyes. You know who I am, who I serve, and what I plan to do, is that not correct, Your Highness?

The King, with his last thread of life, speaks thus:

He will stop you. By doing this, you have sealed your fate.

The Necromancer kneels even lower and grins evilly.

Have I now? I would rather think that it is his fate which I have sealed...

~-~~-~

The Princess, meanwhile, runs through the dankly lit halls of the upper castle whilst her cousin, Hector, gives chase with sword in hand. The Princess eventually runs into a dead end, with only a window in front and Hector behind. She turns and faces him defiantly.

Out of places to run cousin? asks Hector with a sneer.

You always were too slow to catch me, the Princess begins as she looks over her shoulder out the window, and too stupid to realize when I have led you astray.

Hector fumes and readies his sword for a killing blow when the Princess suddenly leaps out the window. He runs to the window to see that she has mounted her horse and is quickly galloping away. The Princess glances back to see her cousin scowling in anger. She casts him an evil eye before returning her attention to what lays ahead.

~-~~-~

The first thing in the Princess’ mind, heart and soul is to put as much distance between her and her father’s assassins as possible. She quickly passes like a shadow into the forest which encompasses Halvard like a halo, the forest where she as a child explored day in and day out which, even in the dead of night, she can navigate without even the slightest mistake. However, for all her skill, she is no match for the quickly creeping fatigue. She was, after all, only just getting back to sleep after waking from a nightmare she no longer remembers when she heard the shouts of her father and cousin.

Fear drives her, but the fatigue is almost equally as strong.

Through her mental fight to stay awake, she realizes that she has unconsciously been making her way to the home of Edna, wise woman and adviser to her father. The Princess pushes through her drowsed vision and sees Edna outside her small, though expertly built house, standing at her door as if she had been awaiting the Princess’ arrival all along.

The Princess brings her horse to a stop and dismounts. She weakly shambles toward Edna and then breaks down in tears, falling into Edna’s grasp. Edna attempts some measure of consolation, leading the Princess inside and to a bed already made up for her.

~-~~-~

The Princess sleeps, she dreams, until her dreams cloud and images of the previous night transform it into yet another nightmare in a long chain of them. The recollections of her father being run through, and then the pale face and evil eyes of the Necromancer as he smiles a snake’s smile. The Princess awakes with a shock, finding herself in an unfamiliar bed. She looks around and sees Edna working over a small pot. The smell of porridge fills the small house. Edna turns to see that the Princess is awake and flashes her a caring smile.

I was wondering when you would awake. The smell of my cooking always had that effect. I still remember little Morion, barely able to look over the table, waiting impatiently for the ‘bestest porridge in the world,’ as you used to call it, Edna muses and sighs. Things were so much different then.

Edna, my father...

I know, Morion. I know, Edna reassures Morion as she ladles some porridge into a bowl and sets it on the small dining table next to the fireplace. Come, eat and we will talk.

Morion pushes the covers off, rising from bed slowly, making her way to the dining table. She sits down and looks at the bowl of porridge, the hot steam rising to her face which for a moment helps her forget everything. Morion looks up at Edna; a small woman with stark white hair, except that her face does not betray her age. She could very well pass for being a young woman if she were so inclined to. However, her mannerisms made her very much like an old grandmother. The paradox had always bewildered Morion, but Edna has always been and always will be true of heart and completely trustworthy. Edna prepares a bowl for herself, sitting at the table, across from Morion.

Well, eat up. You do not want it to get cold, do you?

But, what about...?

Even if they, Hector and his little ally, knew you were here, they would not dare to try and enter. You are completely safe. As it is, I have already sent a diversion. Now eat!

Morion watches as Edna devours her bowl of porridge and feels her own stomach growl. She had ignored it until now, but she was indeed quite famished. Her worry fades in light of Edna’s insistence, so she begins to eat ravenously. Edna realizes that she had forgotten something, promptly shuffling over to a small pantry and reappearing with two small glasses and a pitcher of milk covered over with frost. She fills the two glasses, offering one to Morion, who drinks and is given a slight shock by how cold the milk is. She looks at Edna in surprise.

Trade secret, little lady, Edna says with a wink.

But these sorts of surprises from Edna the Princess has grown used to over the years and they continue their meal quietly. Not that the meal takes long. Even after returning for seconds, and in Edna’s case thirds, it is perhaps, Morion thinks to herself, too brief. Once finished, Edna clears the table.

Now, about your father, Edna begins while still putting the dishes in the sink, tell me what you saw and do not spare any detail, as hard as it may be to speak of them.

Morion sits thinking for a moment, not trying to remember, but to prepare herself to retell the events which have seared themselves into her memory, never to be removed, forever to be an ice cold scar on her heart.

Father was arguing with Hector. I could not hear exactly about what, but father grew angry and turned his sword on him.

Your father is not quick to anger, Edna says as she sits down.

No, he was not...

Yes. Was, Edna corrects herself as she looks into Morion’s eyes.

A moment of silence passes.

It was then that I noticed him, Morion begins coldly, the cloaked man who killed father.

Edna winces as though a sharp pain has cut through her.

The cloaked man. Did you see his face? she asks reluctantly.

Morion looks far beyond Edna as she remembers when her and the Necromancer locked eyes.

He smiled as he looked up at me. With his blade in my father he smiled...

Edna closes her eyes and raises her head, deep in thought.

That man is no normal man. He has no land, yet carries much power in the south. He is known only as The Necromancer. He is evil incarnate.

What reason would he have to kill my father?

Think hard. Hector was involved. He was always a little ‘off’ as you know.

As well as jealous. He believed his father was supposed to be the rightful King, but when he learned that uncle had conceded the throne to father, Hector grew contemptuous and... Morion trails off.

Edna smirks.

Hector’s father died rather recently, did he not? And last night, Hector and his ally murdered your father.

Hector struck a deal with this ‘Necromancer’ to help him remove all obstacles and take over father’s kingdom?

Your kingdom, Morion, Edna corrects with a swift glance.

Yes. I suppose so. Which means I am the only one in Hector’s way of fulfilling this plot.

Edna leans toward Morion as if about to whisper a secret.

Think hard... was there nothing else that happened, Your Highness?

Father had said to go find ‘Him,’ just before the Necromancer attacked, Morion recounts with a glint in her eyes.

Edna thinks for a moment, then her face reveals revelation.

Oh! The Black Knight! It’s been a long time since there has been news of him. Even longer since he was seen.

Nonetheless, I have to find him. He is the only one that can help me, except even as Morion says this, her eyes fill with defeat, but I have no idea where to start looking for him.

Edna stands up and walks over to a bookcase full of old tomes and volumes.

Luckily for you, I at the very least have an idea of which direction to go. Ah! Here we are.

Edna removes a massive, and very old looking, black leather bound book. She walks it over to the table, dropping the book with a thud, spewing dust over Morion. Edna retakes her seat and throws the book open. The book is filled with page after page of maps, alongside hand written text. Edna finally finds the page she is looking for.

What do these maps show? asks Morion. I cannot read the writing.

This book was made long ago. It is a... well, census guide of sorts, I suppose, of all the lands that were at one time part of a much older, much larger kingdom.

How does that help us find the Black Knight?

You know the stories of the Knight as well as I do, better maybe as often as your father recited them to you. The stories tell that he lives in an ancient castle deep in a dark forest.

Yes... Morion lies, still not following.

Do not be so dense, child! He is a legend! It only makes sense that the Knight’s castle would be somewhere within the territory of the old kingdoms. Somewhere that no one would think to look, or if they did, would be too afraid to go.

Oh.

Now, if I were a mythical hero desiring a place of solitude, Edna says as she runs her finger over an invisible route on the map, where would I roost? Edna’s finger stops on the outskirts of an unnamed forest range. She taps the forest range for Morion’s sake, ensuring that she sees it.

Edna, how can you possibly know if that is where he is?

It is unnamed! Mapped forests never go unnamed! He has to be there! Morion smirks at Edna’s eccentricity, but the advisor ignores it. Not that it matters. You have to trust me. Go east toward that forest, and eventually you may discover more.

I have always trusted you. It is just that...

You are afraid. I know. You would have to be insane not to be at a time like this. Morion looks down at her chest, a pendant much like her father’s hangs around her neck. Besides, Edna continues, watching Morion hold and caress the pendant, that necklace you wear all but ensures that you will find the Knight, does it not?

One would hope.

Well, we have to get you ready then, Edna says as she stands up, walking to a closet. You cannot go around with nothing more than a nightgown now, can you?

Edna rummages through the closet until she finds a set of clothes made from heavy cloth and leather, along with a riding cloak. The outfit of an adventurer. Morion stands and accepts the clothes from Edna.

After changing, Morion ties back her long dark brown hair and pulls the hood of the cloak over her head. Edna cannot help but smile at the sight. She hands Morion a small dagger, which the Princess unsheathes, checking the edge. The blade itself is rather plain, but the construction is second to none. Morion sheathes the dagger again, securing it on her belt, under the cloak.

So, I just wander east until I learn the whereabouts of the legendary Black Knight. Sounds simple enough

More or less, Edna says with a frivolous wave of her hand, but do not forget: you are now a Queen, the Queen of this Kingdom. The Queen of Halvard. You will undoubtedly find that you have very little influence in the towns and lands outside Halvard’s limits and, as such, revealing your name and position would be most unwise.

Any other words of advice? You are officially my advisor now, I suppose.

Just one: be wary of taking any companions on your journey, should you come across any. I would go so far as to say accept no help but that from the Knight himself, for he would reveal himself more openly than one might think.

Sage and oddly specific advice, Edna.

I have engaged in my fair share of quests, Edna says with a wink. Now, you must leave, well, pretty much right this moment. I already prepared a pack for you. Edna walks again to her pantry, retrieving a full and carefully loaded travel pack. This pack should have enough to last a few days. Mostly food, a few medical supplies. No extra clothes I am afraid.

Morion takes the pack, and the two exit the house. Standing at the ready in the garden is Morion’s horse, already properly saddled. Morion secures the pack to the saddle then mounts the horse.

Morion, please be careful. I dare not think I need to mention what might happen if you fail.

No, you do not. I will return with all possible haste. Morion brings the horse around and begins to ride, but a sudden thought grips her mind. She turns back to Edna. Why do you call him that? She calls out.

What do you mean? Edna asks, completely oblivious to Morion’s meaning.

The Black Knight. You simply call him ‘The Knight.’ Why?

Old habit, more than anything. And it is easier to say. Morion nods and, as she is bringing her animal back to the road, Edna shouts out: When you find him, tell him hello for me!

As you wish!

Morion sets her animal onto the road, whips on the horse’s reins and it quickly reaches top speed, galloping away into the east.

~-~~-~

Hector paces about the throne room, which has become full of mercenaries, cutthroats and other various shadowy figures of moral ambiguity. All have come from the south lands. The Necromancer enters the room silently. At the sight of him, the men line up in rows as if expecting inspection. Hector quickly comes to the Necromancer’s side, the two walking between the rows of men.

These are the best you could find? the Necromancer asks, unimpressed.

They are the absolute best at what they do, I assure you.

I highly doubt that, the Necromancer retorts with a sneer, which fades away to a dark smirk. You hire who you see fit. I have my own... well, let us call them ‘friends,’ for this sort if work.

Hector watches uneasily as the Necromancer leaves, laughing to himself lightly.

Chapter Two

The First Dream

Return to Table of Contents

After riding for unheeded hours, Morion eventually enters into an ancient forest, with trees hundreds of feet high, and girths nearly as impressive; ages old trees that none could cut down even if so inclined. The canopy of leaves blocks out the sun almost completely, save for the occasional shaft of light which pierces through the dense foliage like a spear through chain armor. Oddly, Morion moves through this forest slowly - not because the going is difficult, but because she finds herself drawn to the place, fascinated by the feeling of safety the trees afford.

When night falls, Morion brings her first day’s journey to a halt, camping at the foot of one of the massive trees. She decides to start a small fire for warmth, using some of the tools and items given to her by Edna. Propped between the fire and the tree, she quickly falls asleep, unwillingly into the clutches of a dream.

~-~~-~

Morion finds herself back in her room overlooking the castle garden, where she sees the Necromancer, Hector and her father again. There is a bright flash of lightning, and the scene transforms - her father is no longer there, but replaced by another man, no more than fifty years old, perhaps younger even, but prematurely aged by worry, with a short beard and wearing fine black linen. Morion struggles with the face of this man. His face is familiar, but it is shadowy. Her mind cannot focus, so she moves her gaze away, trying to push through the darkness and confusion.

She looks again to see that Hector has changed as well, wearing a cloak similar to that of the Necromancer. The bearded man looks up at Morion with tears in his eyes just before the Necromancer plunges his blade into the bearded man’s heart. The Necromancer roars with nefarious laughter as the man falls to the ground. The laughter echoes throughout the entire castle and grows in intensity until the very walls shake. Morion has to cup her hands over her ears as the laugh grows and grows. The sound causes the ground in the garden to crack and move. Under the ground, a red light glows, and Morion can see molten rock. Accompanying the sight is the scent of brimstone.

From the molten earth rises a red figure: shaped like a man with the features of a dragon. As it enters the world, it stretches its limbs and flares its wings. The Necromancer and Hector bow in reverence to the dragon. The dragon slowly stalks over to the fallen man, a disdainful growl rumbling from deep in the dragon’s gullet at the sight of him.

Abruptly, another creature swoops down from the skies striking the red dragon. Morion watches as this second man-dragon, black as onyx and full of wrath, lands with its eyes focused upon the red dragon. The black dragon circles the red one and moves to the fallen man. The red dragon allows the black dragon to pick the fallen man up carefully in its large, taloned hands. The Necromancer raises his blade in defiance, but the red dragon snorts in denial, chiding its servant. The Necromancer lowers his weapon, reluctantly withdrawing behind the red dragon. The black dragon sneers at the Necromancer, then takes the fallen man away, setting him amid a bed of flowers in the corner of the garden. The black dragon sheds a single tear, which lands on the man.

The black dragon spins back to the red dragon, teeth bared.

The two dragons leap at one another, clawing and biting ferociously. They wrestle, but the battle is a stalemate - neither gains or losses ground to the other. Amidst their conflict, the Necromancer steps out, looking Morion in the eyes, ignoring the two dragons. The Necromancer reaches out his left hand, and Morion finds herself pulled forward. Not her, she realizes, but rather the pendant around her neck. Morion struggles against the Necromancer’s power. The Necromancer doubles his efforts and Morion is nearly drawn out the window. She continues to fight, despite the Necromancer’s disgusting smirk. No, she fights in defiance of it. The black dragon takes notice, pushing the red dragon away from him so that he may soar over to the Necromancer.

The black dragon’s actions are swift. Before the Necromancer can react, the black dragon has caught him up in its talons and opened its jaws, preparing to bite the Necromancer. However, the red dragon has righted itself, bounding behind the black dragon and striking it, causing the black dragon to drop the Necromancer. The black dragon quickly swivels and throws the red dragon across the garden effortlessly. Upon returning his attention back to the Necromancer, the black dragon is shocked to find that the Necromancer has transformed into a near duplicate of the red dragon, but still wearing his black cloak. The Necromancer throws the black dragon to the center of the garden. The black dragon attempts to move, but he is pinned down by his wings, the talons of the red dragon keeping them in place.

Morion closes her eyes as the Necromancer begins to mercilessly attack the black dragon. She then becomes aware of a presence in her room. She faces the presence, surprised to see Hector, still cloaked, with an evil blade in his hand. He smirks, looking much like the Necromancer, before plunging the blade into her stomach.

~-~~-~

Morion awakes with a start and a scream. She looks around for a moment, expecting to see her cousin. She is calmed by the sight of the trees, and the remembering of her task. The fire has long since died and the sun pushes through the leaves. It is just past morning, dew still clinging to the plants. Morion packs up her gear, stomps out the smoldering embers of the fire and continues on her trek.

By late afternoon, Morion exits the forest. She is greeted by the sight of a huge plain; flat and grassy except for the occasional rock formations and caves. Across the plains, Morion can detect the signs of civilization: patches of deforested land and rutted paths, the telltale indicators of a logging camp. With a smirk Morion whips at the reins, pushing her horse on, cutting across the plain.

Overhead a flock of black birds keeps pace with Morion, putting her at ill ease. She cannot escape the feeling that they are watching her. The birds then surge forward to the camp ahead. Morion watches the birds for a moment, then ignores them as she yields her attention back to the plain.

Halfway across the plain, she nears what she had previously thought was merely a old, dead tree or rock formation. Morion slows and then stops as she realizes that it is in fact the ruins of an old statue, with a small shrine at its foot, long since destroyed, decayed and abandoned. The right forearm of the statue is missing, but the rest reveals a man garbed in strange armor, heroically facing south with what can only be assumed as a stance of opposition, the stump of its right arm outstretched while its left hand sits ready on the hilt of its sword. Morion admires the statue in silence, wondering at its origins. After this brief pause, she turns the horse back to her journey across the plain. Morion after only a moment forward comes to a small brook, where she stops to fill her water skin and allow the horse a short but well deserved reprieve.

The wind changes without warning, carrying a deep, biting chill. The afternoon sun is overtaken by dark storm clouds but no rain falls. Morion pulls her riding cloak tighter as she remounts her horse and continues on.

By early evening she finally arrives at the outskirts of the logging camp, only to find it long deserted. Tools are scattered about rusted, wood cabins rotted with the ceilings collapsed. Morion notices, however, that the road has recent signs of travel, so she follows it. It does not take long for her to find the reason for the road being used; around a bend in the road, hidden by an outcropping of trees is a town. More of a small city in fact, made of a number of shops, various smiths, houses and inns. Most are common in shape and design, except for one building in the center of town which stands higher than the rest, more dramatically built for the sole purpose of attracting the attention of the wayward traveler.

Morion rides up to this building, quickly discovering that it is an inn and tavern, bustling with activity: loud voices, music playing and the clanking of mead mugs. The Queen ties her horse to the post outside the tavern threshold and cautiously, with her hand on the hilt of her dagger, enters.

~-~~-~

Inside the tavern, it is nearly full to capacity and busy with people eating, drinking, telling stories and being many shades of merry. Morion, who had never in her life entered a tavern, let alone been so close to so many, stands dumbstruck.

What’ll it be there, missy?, a voice erupts, jolting Morion.

She spins to face the voice, seeing that it came from the bartender and most likely owner of the tavern based on the look on his face. Behind him, a woman attempts to carry two trays of mead while avoiding another woman coming back with three trays of empty mugs.

Whatever you would recommend for a weary traveler, good sir, Morion replies with a smile.

That’d be mead! Does a body good I say. Find a place to sit, and we’ll get to you as fast as we can. As you can see, we have a little celebration going!

Not sure that she cares to know the reason for the celebration, Morion simply bows gratefully as she begins the daunting task of finding an empty chair. She finds one at a small round table where a man and woman sit, the two talking to one another briskly. The woman has fair hair and bright eyes. The man has reddish-brown hair with eyes to match and a pale complexion.

Is this seat taken? Morion asks politely.

Hmm? Oh, no. Please do sit, the woman replies with a smile.

Is it always this busy?

Oh, you noticed? the man asks like Morion’s question was irritating.

Ignore him, the woman says, casting a scolding eye at her companion. He is just upset that someone laughed at his performance earlier

Performance? Morion repeats curiously.

You mean to say you do not recognize us!? the man says with a tone of mock surprise.

The woman looks at him with a smirk.

He teases, of course, the woman begins, we are the bards Cale and Amy. We go from town to town, reciting and performing stories of bravery and renown. Of heroes and villains. Unfortunately, our last few shows have been... well...

Disastrous! Cale interrupts. Failures of epic proportions to say the least!

I am sorry, Morion says, as though she is responsible.

Amy waves in dismissal.

Do not be. It is what we deserve for telling tales of someone so... removed, I suppose, from the minds of people, Amy replies, glancing at Cale harshly.

Cale notices Amy’s dagger-like eyes.

Hey, it is not my fault! The tales of the Black Knight usually go over well in towns like these.

On hearing that, Morion becomes visibly surprised.

You know of the Black Knight? she asks with unsuppressed enthusiasm.

Both bards are shocked at Morion’s response at the mere mention of the Black Knight.

Yes, indeed, Cale responds, slightly confused.

The stories of the Black Knight were usually our most requested, but lately... Amy speaks, then trails off as Cale finishes her sentence, it is as though the mere mention of the name is heresy.

Why is that? inquires Morion, leaning in closer to the duo.

Well, it seems some regions have differing, Cale starts.

Points of view concerning the Black Knight, Amy interrupts, finishing Cale’s sentence.

Exactly.

In some lands, he is revered as a hero, Amy continues, while in other, more remote places.

He is reviled and called a demon, Cale chimes in, a concept that seems to be spreading.

That cannot be true. I happen to know for a fact that he is a defender of the people, Morion blurts out.

Before the bards can press Morion, a woman walks up to their table and sets down a mug of mead and a plate of roasted meat and vegetables. Morion looks up, about to protest, but the woman quickly reassures her.

Worry not, dear. Our beloved owner thought you could do with a good meal. Enjoy.

Morion smiles and nods in acceptance, and the woman goes back about her work. Ignoring all her sensibilities, as well as manners, Morion begins to ravenously eat the meal before her, with the occasional swig of mead. It does not take long for her to finish.

Now that you have finished, Cale says with a slight laugh, mind telling us where you learned that bit of information from?

Morion is reluctant to remember how and why she knows what she does about the Black Knight. She places her hand on her chest and looks sad for a moment before answering.

My father. He had met with the Black Knight on occasion.

And who was your father that he was important enough to meet with the Black Knight? Cale mockingly asks.

Morion does not answer and looks to Amy. The two come to the realization that many of the people in the tavern are eyeing them.

The Black Knight, whoever he is, has had an effect on the people here, Amy says in almost a whisper. The phrase ‘Butcher of Theria’ pops up rather often.

Butcher? No. That cannot be correct..., whispers Morion.

Well, it is what they say, not us, Cale tells her.

A man, wearing a hooded cloak, who had been sitting alone in the corner of the tavern stands, trouncing up beside Morion suddenly, startling the Queen.

You should be more careful about where you speak of the Knight, lady. He is not all that well received any more, and has far more enemies than he does allies... and those who call him an ally can easily become targets before they know it. A dead ally is no ally at all.

With that, he exits the tavern. The trio sits silent.

I wonder what that was about, Amy says as though deep in thought.

Morion is more than slightly shaken by the cloaked man’s words. In fact, it would be more accurate to say that she was utterly terrified. But, being a Queen, she quickly composes herself as if he had never been there.

Well, it was nice to meet you but you will have to excuse me, Morion says politely to the bards, I have to get some sleep. Goodnight.

Morion stands, excuses herself from the table, walks to the bartender and pays for a room, which another woman politely escorts Morion to.

~-~~-~

Morion is brought into a charming little room, very much to the contrary of what she had been expecting. The sight of the bed immediately makes her aware of how tired she actually is. Without a second thought she falls onto the bed and quickly slips into sleep. The sleep does not last, though, as Morion is constantly haunted by her dreams. Some dark, some prophetic, some hopeful; all unnerving for her and all involving two creatures: the red and black man-dragons. Morion lays in bed, unwilling to allow herself to attempt sleep again. Her eyes dart toward the window, seeing that it is still quite dark outside. Only a handful of hours, if even that, have passed.

She then becomes aware of a sound coming from outside. At first it sounds like the wind howling, but the pitch begins to change sporadically and she realizes it to be, obviously, music. Morion crawls out of bed, drifting over to the window. Pulling back the curtains only a bit, she peeks out to see that a man is playing a small wooden wind instrument, like a flute. The man sits on a bale of hay in front of a small shop across from the inn. He is the same one who had earlier spoken to her cryptically in the tavern. Morion feels herself calmed and drawn into the music, despite its apparent sorrow. The song could very well be a funeral dirge, but something about it is almost hypnotic, something from a deep and forgotten memory.

The man suddenly stops and pulls the flute away from his lips, lost in thought for a moment before snapping the flute over his knee and storming off down the road. As he passes the inn, he looks up to see Morion standing at the window, watching him. Morion stands immobile, looking into his eyes, barely visible through the darkness of the hood drawn over his head. She is immediately drawn back to that night in the castle when the Necromancer had looked up at her after running her father through. She might have screamed had it not been for the fact that this hooded man’s eyes were sad and somber; nearly a mirror image of her own. He lowers his gaze, shakes his head and continues on his way.

Morion lets slip the curtain from her hand then retreats back to the bed. She lay there, thinking for a moment before she closes her eyes and allows sleep to come, the music having run her fear of the nightmares away.

~-~~-~

Morion is awakened by the sound of voices in her room. At first, when the voices are incoherent, she silently curses whoever has disturbed her, having finally found peace in her sleep. As she fully wakes up, it becomes clear who has waken her: the two bards, Cale and Amy. Amy stands over Morion’s bed while Cale stands watch at the door, his hand on the pommel of a short sword hanging from his belt. Amy’s voice has a degree of urgency that makes Morion apprehensive.

Your Highness, please. We need to leave now!

Morion gets out of bed in such a way as to keep it between her and the bards.

What did you call me? Morion asks, attempting to suppress her fear and outrage at having her identity seemingly discovered through no mistake of her own.

The two bards look at one another, then Amy turns back to answer.

We know who you are. We know that you father was killed and that you are looking for the Black Knight.

And how is it that you know these things? the Queen demands.

The events of the world travel faster than you may think, Cale replies with a coy smile. One person tells someone something, that person tells someone else, so on and so forth.

Morion does not ease after hearing their answer.

So you say. What reason do you have for waking me then?

In the tavern, we overheard a group of men talking. They have been tracking you, apparently, Amy replies.

Tracking me? What do they want?

Amy and Cale again look at each other.

To kill you, Amy says grimly. They intended to come and assassinate you when the tavern closed.

If you want to live, I would highly suggest we escape. Now! Cale declares as if annoyed by the whole situation.

Morion nods, looking around the room for a moment. She takes notice of the window. She dashes over to it, pushes the panes open and discovers that the drop to the road is not all that far. She has, after all, jumped from higher windows under more dire circumstances.

Coming? she mockingly asks the bards before leaping out.

~-~~-~

Morion stands in the center of the road, motionless as the bards follow her lead out the window. When they are standing beside her, they see why she has not moved; her horse has been brutally hacked to death, and Morion’s pack, which she apparently forgot about, has been torn apart and rummaged through. Amy tugs on Morion’s arm as Cale attempts to lead the trio away from the town. Morion comes to, realizing that they are heading into the forest on the town’s north eastern outskirts.

Why are we headed into the trees? asks Morion uneasily.

To avoid leaving tracks. If we followed the road, it would be a matter of only moments before they caught up with us, Cale answers without turning to face Morion.

They continue onward, making their way through the forest, away from the city, but otherwise aimlessly. Morion stops, a