Knight of the Dead

Prologue

One year later.

The hallway was cold, dark, damp and silent. This was one of many similar hallways, any one of which would have sufficed. The torches in this hallway’s sconces had not been lit in many years, these being in the very bowels, long since forgotten. That would change.

There was a subtle change in temperature, colder, a disturbance in the air, and the darkness got ever darker, blacker, and the air itself seemed to part. The rats roaming the hallway instantly froze as the very air seemed to solidify as the rent in the air grew larger. It was like looking into nothing, then from this nothingness . . . something. Something indiscernible slipped, slid, crawled, crouched, and then stood, a separate blackness. The temperature rose slightly, and the form took shape, slowly, first a blackness, then a darkness, then shadow. The rent in the air disappeared, leaving just shadow. Then the shadow walked.

It walked the hallways and corridors, always moving up, the people seeing it, ignored it for it was only a shadow. Up and up it moved, until finally it sensed what it was seeking. It slid silently under a door guarded by two sentries and into the personal rooms, unseen.

The shadow slid along the walls until abreast of the sleeping figures, then it slithered a shadowy hand out, through the sheets and into one of the bodies. At first there was no reaction, and then the shadowy fingers grasped the soul and pulled. The soul screamed, silently, as the hand withdrew into itself holding the soul in its solidifying fingers. It seemed to study it, turning it over and over, but in fact parts of the shadow were seeping into the soul, the body silently writhing, as the shadow, what was left of it, put the soul back, and the shadow disappeared. It was done!

Chapter 1

Two more years pass.

The town of Xan was small compared to the other towns in the area and it was the farthest away from the capital city of Abertawe in the East, far enough away that news was sparse and weeks old by the time it arrived. Xan sat amidst grasslands that stretched west towards the coast and east towards the Backbone Mountains. It was farm country, with families spread across the rolling hills and valleys.

Life is a journey, a journey with many paths, many pitfalls, and many joys. The secret is to embrace each as they materialize; savor the good times, learn from the bad times, and hope the good outweigh the bad.

That was how the man known as Gideon tried to live his life. Nobody in the town knew how old he was, and nobody knew where he came from. He had appeared just over a year before, a ghost-like apparition materializing out of the early morning mist, with a determined stride and purpose. He had stayed, and they accepted him for what he was, a stranger in need of rest and food.

He was an imposing figure, wide in the shoulders, white of hair and beard, face weathered by the sun, stern and morose of face and countenance, and when he spoke, it was in a tone that commanded attention and obedience. It was a voice to be followed, and on occasion, although he appeared gruff and unforgiving, he would entertain the children of the town with tales of heroism, magic, monsters and adventure. They would gather round this giant of a man, many of the children only measuring to his knees, their eyes wide in wonder as he spoke. His words conjured images of worlds they had never dreamt of, but that were only too real to Gideon. The townsfolk had given him the nickname Stryker, because as the town’s blacksmith, that is what he did to the anvil. The adults of the town were wary of him and addressed him as Master Stryker; all the children saw him as a friend and called him Gideon.

The Lions’ Den was the smallest of three taverns in the town, two storied, with rooms above and stables at the back. The main room consisted of a bar to the left of the door, chairs and tables on the right, and a fireplace on the farthest wall. It was also the quietest, which suited Gideon just fine. He sat in his favorite chair in front of the crackling fire; winter had just ended, but the nights were still chilly. Several of the tables were occupied with regulars, eating and drinking, swapping stories, a couple of travel weary strangers sat at the bar, while Megyn, the serving girl, moved between customers, low murmuring accompanying the clink of beer mugs.

Cold night air gusted in as the tavern door was flung back, hitting the wall with a loud bang, as two arrogant, intimidating and loutish men entered, followed by a short and thinner third man. As in all situations like this, the tavern went quiet as everyone turned towards the door, curious. The two intimidating men were attired in the uniform of the Abertawenian Knights, complete with red and grey cloaks, tunics over chain mail, with sword and dagger at hips.

The one on the right was in his thirties, tall, blue, deep set eyes, and an old, jagged scar running from the corner of his right eye to his jaw line. The Knight on the left was about the same age, slightly shorter but broader in the shoulders, his black eyes constantly shifting around the room, sizing everybody up. He was a veteran, it took him but seconds. They both stood feet apart with their hands resting on their sword hilts. The third member of the trio stood behind them, obviously their leader, in his twenties, he was shorter, slight of build, and wore the green and black uniform of the Kings’ Messenger. He also wore a permanent sneer on his face, as if he despised all people.

Food and drink, now! boomed Scarface.

Ignoring the empty tables, they made their way to the occupied table nearest the fire, at which two of the older townsfolk sat. Bill, the old Cobbler, looked up nervously, waiting for the inevitable. He was not disappointed. Scarface casually grasped Old Bill by the collar of his tunic, and flung him to the floor, overturning his chair.

Gideon rose, slowly, deliberately, helped Bill to his feet, righted the overturned chair, sat him back in it, and then placed himself between Bill and the Knights. The three turned to face Gideon.

The small voice emanating from the King’s Messenger asked a question.

What is the penalty for interfering with King Gruffydd’s Messenger, Grinwald? he asked, turning to Scarface.

Death, replied Grinwald, with no emotion.

Chairs were scraped back and there was the shuffling of feet as people got up and left, the two strangers moved from the bar to a corner by the door, and Megyn moved behind the bar with Dale, the owner. The Messenger stepped to the other corner, out of the way, as the two Knights put enough distance between them so they could draw their swords unimpeded. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire, as the flames threw dancing shadows across the walls.

They have done this many times before, thought Gideon, as he studied the Knights, and something long buried inside him came to the surface. The words of his father came back to him.

Always be true to yourself, he had told Gideon, just before he died.

For the last year he had not been true to himself. Darkness had swallowed him, but no longer!

Even in an out of the way place such as Xan, news eventually arrived, and Gideon had heard about the new King. He had been saddened at the death of King Ansvarr, he had been a good man. He assumed Geraint was the new King, being the oldest of Ansvarr’s two sons, but now he learned it was Gruffydd, who was King. He wondered what had happened, but whatever it was, it seemed Gruffydd was not the man his father had been. His father would never have had these vile and vicious men treating his people like this.

Grinwald stood like a rock, eyes jumping, tension filled hand gripping his sword hilt. His partner’s eyes had stopped roaming around the room and now stared at Gideon. He had altered his stance so he was balanced, and his right hand was relaxed, resting on his sword hilt.

Stand aside! I, Sir Galloway commands! ordered the shorter Knight, demanding obedience.

I cannot do that, I do not leave my friends, Gideon said, removing his cloak to show he was not armed. Folding it, he held it in his right hand, which was relaxed at his side.

Stand aside! repeated Galloway.

The old man, Bill, started to rise, but a look from Gideon made him resume his seat.

Why are you doing this? asked Gideon.

Everyone obstructing Silas Borgen, the King’s Messenger, or his Knights, are deemed traitors, he recited; having said it so often, it had become a litany for him.

You are not Knights! You are what the Order despised! Gideon’s voice got stronger. The Order of Knights has a Creed, ‘Threaten One, Threaten All’. As he said the words, all that he had been and all that he was returned.

The reason the Knights were formed, and the Creed our Oath, was to protect not only the King but also the people from tyrants and louts like you! Gideon continued, the words reviving him, bringing back the man he used to be. If you threaten one of us, you threaten all of us, be him King, Knight or farmer.

He finished speaking and looked towards Bill, who held his head up and sat up a little straighter in his seat.

Gideon looked back to Galloway. They were six feet apart.

Enough talk! shouted the thin, impatient voice of Silas Borgen.

Grinwald flinched, which was enough. With one swift motion Gideon threw his cloak into the air which made Grinwald and Galloway instinctively glance up. That split second was all that Gideon needed. He balled his left hand into a fist and covered the distance separating them, charging towards Galloway, who had no time to react - Galloway was used to people moving away from him, not towards him. As Gideon’s fist slammed down on Galloway’s hand covering the hilt of his sword, the silent room was filled with the sickening sound of multiple cracks as the bones in Galloway’s hand were crushed.

The greatest threat nullified, Gideon’s right hand came up from beneath his hip in a powerful uppercut aimed at Grinwald’s jaw, again a loud snap in the quiet room as the jaw broke and he collapsed to the stone floor. Gideon returned his attention to Galloway who was holding his shattered hand, his face contorted in pain. Another right uppercut from Gideon threw Galloway’s head back and he slumped to the floor beside Grinwald.

Gideon held out his hand and caught his cloak before it hit the floor.

Silence had returned to the room.

Gideon looked at the cowering figure of Silas Borgen in the corner.

"You are the King’s Messenger. Take that message to the King, his voice boomed, full of disgust, his finger pointing to the two prone figures of the Knights. He started to turn away, stopped, and turned back. He looked Borgen straight in the eyes and added, Tell the King Gideon Bryndwr, The Swordmaster, sends it!"

Chapter 2

When the Knight’s broken and unconscious bodies had been dragged out by Gideon and left in the street, followed by a skulking Borgen, normalcy returned to the tavern. Old Bill was effusive with his gratitude, then he and his friend resumed their place at their table. Gideon nodded and resumed his seat in front of the fire. He looked into the flames, but he saw not the flames, for he was looking into the past.

He had been in Xan for just over a year, working as the blacksmith, making the occasional sword or dagger, just to keep his skills alive, keep his skills honed, all the while grieving. Grieving for the years he had lost with his wife, but, realizing now that he hadn’t been grieving for Alyssa, he had been grieving for himself. Selfish! Selfish! He admonished himself. Oh, he had grieved for Alyssa at the beginning, but later it was all about what he had lost. Selfish! He wrung his hands in anguish . . .

Master Gideon, said a distant voice.

He continued to wring his hands, lost in thought.

Gideon Bryndwr! This time more loudly.

Gideon heard the name he had not heard in over a year. He looked up and turned. Standing at the bar were the two strangers, and one seemed to be talking to him.

Sir Gideon Bryndwr, Swordmaster to the Knights of the Order.

That sentence summed up who he had been a year before, he thought, all that he had been. He stood and turned towards the speaker. Gideon stood straight, at attention with his head held high, the man he used to be returned. He took a closer look at the strangers at the bar. The speaker was about his height, but slender, the other was taller; the hooded cloaks obscuring most of their features.

Who calls Gideon Bryndwr?

Callan, Son of Owen, Knight of Holbrooke. My father rode with you, he finished, pushing his hood back to reveal his face. Young, about twenty-two years old, fair haired, brown eyes, thin face like his father, and, like his father, a strong jaw line.

You look like your father. He is well?

Yes, he is well, and concerned. He has a message.

Yes. It was a statement, not a question.

It is time.

For a minute Gideon said nothing, then, Aye, time it is. There was regret in Gideon’s voice, regret for the time lost, but, there was also determination in his voice, a new vigor for the journey ahead.

And you are, Sir? Gideon asked, looking at Callan’s companion.

This is Skaelor, explained Callan, "we met on the road and he asked if I