The Knight Proper

PROLOGUE

Sit closer, my friends and, yes, please do have another drink, won’t you? Let me twist your thoughts for a moment or two, for I’ve a tale to tell . . .

The night was old.

Burdened with the weight of all the silent hours just before sunrise, its heavy black air hung over a cemetery road tarnished by a thousand thunderstorms. A great bolt of lightning ushered yet another tempest in, a rumbling boom of thunder following in its wake. And as white heat split the air, shadows took shape and form, revealing a small tribe of women running for their very lives. Hidden under heavy grey patchworks of frayed cloth with dark locks of hair sliding out from under their hoods.

A tale of the Trauergast . . .

Up the winding cemetery road they ran, chased by a score of hulking knights, their banging steel and angry shouts ringing out over the storm’s thunderous din.

. . . and their relentless adversaries, the Konig Protectorate.

As the cloaked figures pushed through the stiff mud, a towering archway of rusted iron and weathered stone loomed before them . . . the entrance to the vast graveyard that lay just beyond. They seemed emboldened by this, a surge of energy in their desperate steps, while their pursuers momentarily blanched with fear before continuing the chase.

A tale of a witch . . . and her knight in tarnished armor.

Amid the steady downpour, the hood of one witch was thrown back by the rush of her flight, revealing exotic, slender features—a dark beauty in every sense of the word. Her eyes, normally given to warmth and comfort, were now seized with panic and despair. A steel-plated glove came down on her shoulder—one of the armored brutes had finally caught up to her, but Evelina’s anxiety eased when she realized who it was.

Young and bold, his face split with cuts and burdened with bruises, the knight known as Edwin gave her a quick nod of assurance. She offered a hopeless smile in return as they both looked down to the precocious little girl holding tightly to Edwin’s mailed hand. Clutching likewise at a tattered doll dressed in grey rags, little Mela was the mirror image of Evelina, sharing the same complexion and wistful locks of long dark hair. But she also had Edwin’s steely grey eyes, a gaze that spoke of an inner strength, of a resolve before her time.

Just ahead, two witches finally reached the towering gate of the cemetery and stumbled across its threshold. One bore the hard lines of old age, wrinkles cutting deeply across her flesh as she looked back to see the knights still in pursuit. The other witch was just shy of womanhood, relief upon her face as she nearly threw herself atop the cemetery’s ragged soil.

In haste, the two of them closed their eyes and breathed in the decrepit tombstones, the leafless, dead trees, holding their hands out as if they were basking in the warmth of an open fire. A sliver of fog rose from the ground and pooled around their feet, circling up and around their bodies, until it engulfed them in a column of milky-white mist laced with faint blue sparks. Without warning, it imploded with a sudden pop . . . and then they were gone.

Their powers, drawn from cemeteries and graveyards, absorbed the sadness, the melancholy of such places, the bleak thoughts and the spent tears, wielding it to their own mysterious ends. Yet they were peaceful beings, wishing only to be left alone in their crypts, their burial grounds . . . forever tending to the dead for a coin or two.

Another graveyard, this one choked with wild grass and not a cloud in sight. Silver moonlight illuminated a freshly dug grave that waited to receive the linen-wrapped body lying just beside it. Gently tending to the body were more witches, garbed in their grey cloaks, crowned with their telltale locks of dark hair. A young family stood nearby, dabbing their red teary eyes, grateful for the benediction their loved one was receiving.

The witches methodically toiled away, dusting the linen free of dirt, chanting softly over the shroud, until a faint crackle of eldritch power captured their attention. They stood, surprised to see dual shafts of fog spiraling upward in the distance . . . finally revealing the old woman and her counterpart. The two women immediately embraced each other, a deluge of tears streaming down their cheeks as they acknowledged their narrow escape.

More witches straggled past the threshold of the cemetery’s vaunted gates, finally able to call upon their powers. Multiple columns of fog rushed up from the ground to then implode into nothingness. One witch struggled to keep pace with the sisters ahead of her, gasping for breath; a crossbow bolt slammed into her shoulder. The impact rent flesh and crushed bone, sending her tumbling forward, as a second bolt quickly finished the job. The knights were gaining. Another witch slipped in the mud, just behind Mela and her parents.

They looked back, only to see a knight cut the woman down, silencing her scream with one brutal blow. Mela simply stared, unable to process what was happening as the towering knight wrenched his sword from the woman’s corpse. Edwin turned Mela back around and jolted her forward, placing her tiny hand into Evelina’s. Mela looked up to see the two of them speak without words, an imitable sadness in her parents’ eyes as Edwin stayed behind. But sadness soon turned into icy resolution as he drew his sword, the long blade scraping against the tough sheath like a warning cry to their pursuers. He gripped it tightly with both hands and faced his oncoming brethren, awaiting the inevitable.

Given a moment of respite by Edwin’s desperate stand, Evelina finally pulled Mela across the cemetery’s threshold and hugged her daughter tight. Mela could feel the slippery fog already climbing up her skin, while everything went white. In the distance, she heard her father’s battle cry and the clanging of swords . . . and a pang of terrible sadness latched on to her heart. The tendrils of mist closing over them, she felt her mother, soft and warm against the fog. It wouldn’t be long now; she reluctantly closed her eyes.

Yet, when she opened them, they were still in the same cemetery. Confused, she looked up to her mother and to the tears running down her cheeks. Evelina shook her head, trying to battle back her emotions, but it was an effort made in vain. Realizing this, she wiped her eyes and gently pushed her daughter to the side.

Edwin found himself encircled by the knights, their blades darting in and out, searching for an opening, but he gave them none. Pivoting about, his large muscular frame belied the grace and speed at which he brought his blade up and around to deflect their blows. Still, after the chase, his stamina was wearing. The knights sensed it, pressing their attack, until a faint glow stopped them in their tracks. In the graveyard just beyond, a shimmering nimbus of fog spilled outward, hugging the soil, sifting into every crack and every crevice. An electrical current chased this white soup, dancing about in the mist, caressing the homes of the dead.

The knights froze, leaving a wary Edwin to collapse with exhaustion. In between ragged breaths, he turned his head to see what they were staring at, but deep down in his heart, he already knew. The sensation of the special coolness of the fog, of his wife’s reach, they echoed in his chest and brought dread into his very being.

Despair flooded his veins as Evelina strode forth to the center of the cemetery, her arms held aloft. He shouted for her to stop, to take Mela and leave, but it was all to no avail. From behind, Edwin heard the other knights suddenly splitting ranks, but he didn’t bother turning around, for he already knew the reason why.

The knight-lord had arrived. His king, his sovereign . . . his father. A rich, crimson cloak draped across his plated shoulders, Renton Talmaris strode right past Edwin without sparing him a single glance, lines of bitter disappointment etched in his weathered face. No, the true target of his ire was the witch before him. The other knights gripped their swords tightly, waiting for Renton’s imminent command.

From a tactical standpoint, the knight-lord knew that immediately charging Evelina was the best option to be had, before she could muster her unnatural energies, but he wanted them to see. His son, his loyal knights, he needed all of them to bear witness. With their very own eyes, to look on exactly just what evils these Gravewalkers were capable of committing.

Evelina eyed her husband’s captors, the knight-lord and his retinue, standing just outside the cemetery’s gates. She gave a quick glance to Mela, quietly clutching her raggedy doll close to her chest. She could do this. The knight-lord may have known of hatred, but he knew nothing of a woman’s love for her husband, for her family.

With that, she closed her eyes, every fiber of her being trembling with the resolve to do what had to be done. Never had she attempted this before; never had she seen it done herself, only heard about it in the wide-eyed tales and dusty tomes of her distant ancestors. But the knight-lord and his ilk would soon know it for themselves as her eyelids slid open, revealing electric-white orbs, a storm inside to match the very heavens above.

In the end, fear overruled reason. Evelina and Edwin’s union was judged to be unlawful and immoral, their daughter, a disgrace upon the legacy of the Protectorate. But death, in all its many forms, ran deep within the Gravewalkers’ veins, the very essence of their existence. And while legends spoke of their abilities to guide the dead into the afterlife, they could also bring them back.

The knights gasped as lightning flashed and danced in her eyes, the very ground trembling all around them. Amid the downpour, the mud began to churn and boil, whipping itself into a sodden, rotten stew. Without warning, the grey rancid flesh of a forearm thrust itself out from the earth, sending clods of wet soil flying. Nearby, a yellowed skull breached the filthy muck, like a man swimming up from the bowels of the earth to gasp for air. Its black eye sockets stared blankly into the night sky as the wind whipped thin straggles of white hair about its fleshless face. Seeing this, Mela moved away from the unnatural legion forming ranks in the cemetery—not out of fear, but in understanding.

The graveyard continued to heave forth its long-dead inhabitants, their pained moans striking deep into the knights’ mettle. Even the most battle-hardened veterans among them suffered hints of trepidation as the corpses rose up and shook free from the graveyard’s clutches.

And despite all this, the ghastly horrors they were all witnessing, Renton looked on with grim approval.

The knight-lord then drew his sword with one great swift motion, his long arms matching the length of his claymore blade. He charged forward, roaring like an enraged grizzly as he led his men into battle. All the apprehension gone now, the knights followed their leader without delay. Lending their own voices to his mighty battle cry, leaving behind a stunned Edwin, sinking to his knees in the wet soil.

The Untoten.

Nothing more than mindless minions, their souls having departed long ago . . . but they felt no pain and they gave no mercy. This is what gave the knight-lord the conviction to see the Trauergast driven to extinction, beginning with the one who had captured his son’s heart, the one who had torn his loyalty asunder.

As they crashed through the cemetery gates, the Untoten formed a wall against the charging knights, a pale phalanx of rotting flesh, shambling forth to obey Evelina’s commands. Instinctively, the knights fanned outward with military precision, as Renton brought his sword crashing down on the first wave of corpses, carving a path through the press of moldering bodies. His men followed, and the initial array of corpses was quickly rent to pieces, their desiccated limbs sliding back into the mud.

Still, the inexperience of the knights against such unnatural foes and their enemy’s sheer numbers brought them to a standstill. Renton cursed aloud, searching for an advantage, a strategic target of retribution. It wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for, spying Evelina through a gap of bodies, standing behind the bulk of her forces.

With his men now pressed back against the Untoten’s resurgence, Renton muscled his way to her, chopping down corpses as he went. Her arms still spread wide, eyes glowing white-hot with concentration, Renton took a chance and slashed downward, but an abrupt fog whisked her away and out of his path.

His sword now buried in the mud, the knight-lord had Evelina’s full attention as she rose up behind him in a sudden column of mist. She waved her hands and a heavyset corpse slammed into Renton’s side, almost knocking him over. Renton grunted, absorbing the blow, before he finally twisted his sword free of the mud’s grip. Just in time, as another corpse recklessly charged in, this one with sharp, skeletal fingers, clawing at his face. Renton dodged the incoming attack, then lopped off the head of the first corpse. Deftly flipping his massive sword in the air, blade to pommel, he caught it—then crunched in the other corpse’s skull like an overripe eggshell.

His heart shuddering, Renton took a look around, seeing that his small band of knights was still locked in a bitter stalemate. For every shambling minion they dispatched, three more rose to take its place. Desperate, he turned back toward the Gravewalker, who was now concentrating on raising even more Untoten from the vast cemetery. He charged her once again, but just as quickly, she flitted away in a column of mist, only to reappear teasingly just out of his reach. Her arms swung back and forth, her fingers fluttering about, like a marionette dangling the strings of her puppets.

Renton found himself surrounded as they swiped, clawed, and clubbed at him, instantly pressing him back, their blows raining down upon his armor. To attack one was to open himself to the others, so Renton used his blade to block their incessant strikes, waiting for an opening, until three more corpses entered the fray.

Renton cursed, realizing that Evelina meant to end this fight and she meant to do it now. The Untoten pressing, he took a step back, then another, as it was all he could do to stay alive. Exhausted, he made an impulsive, desperate charge through their ranks, suffering a nasty gash to the side of his head in doing so. Finally crashing free of the bodies, he found himself some momentary breathing room and then something else.

Mela.

Only a few feet away, huddled behind a weathered tombstone. The knight-lord made his choice in an instant, as Evelina panicked, knowing exactly what that intent was to be.

Ignored by both the knights and the Untoten, Edwin stumbled into the cemetery, neither a friend nor foe to the two battling sides. He stood there, bewildered by the massive onslaught the two forces had laid against each other, until Evelina’s panicked cry roused him from his stupor. He spun around to see his father charging Mela with every ounce of speed left in him, his daughter just standing there, grasping at her doll with cold, wet fingers . . . and there was nothing he could do except watch it happen right before his very eyes.

The knight-lord jabbed his sword toward little Mela, his legs stumbling, but his aim steady and true, just as a great column of fog rose up before him. He felt the long blade slide through soft flesh, his weight pushing the sword to its hilt as he skidded to a knee. From across the cemetery, he heard his son’s cry and looked up to see Evelina now skewered upon his sword, the fog dissipating into nothingness all around her. And as her body crumpled, so did the Untoten, sinking back into the earth, back into their soggy graves.

Father and son.

On his knees, Edwin vaguely felt two knights grab him and drag him through the mud toward Renton.

Lord and servant.

Renton pulled the bloodied blade from his son’s beloved, eliciting a soft cry of pain from her lips as Mela stood stock-still, her eyes on her mother’s prostrate form. Mela was unharmed, but the battle was effectively over. The knight-lord had triumphed.

At the sound of his men’s approach, Renton turned around to see Edwin being hauled toward him. He motioned for them to bring him to his feet and then offered Edwin his sword, gesturing toward Evelina. The faint swells of her ragged breath were the only indication that she was still alive.

Beset by a thousand emotions, Edwin considered his father, the sword, and then the unnatural abominations that Evelina had summoned forth from their graves, lying next to the bodies of his former comrades.

But Mela’s soft sobs washed all that away, her doll held close to her chest, tears running down her red cheeks. Edwin looked back to the blade and to his father holding it before him. He could very well take it and run his father through. Evelina could still be saved. The surviving Gravewalkers could heal her and they could all still be together.

But in the end . . . he could do nothing.

Thus, the witch . . .

Another bolt of lightning split the sky to reveal a castle towering in the distance as Renton shook his head in disgust. He flipped the blade about and let the hilt come back to his hand.

. . . she lost her life.

And in one blurry motion, the sword rose and fell.

And the knight . . .

Edwin slumped to his knees, utterly defeated, a pool of Evelina’s lifeblood spreading out toward him.

. . . he lost his very soul.

Mela’s tattered doll fell to the ground as Renton gestured for his men to seize her. Edwin lifted his head toward his daughter, only to see her already looking directly at him. In her eyes, there was only fear, sorrow . . . and anger.

And at that very moment, Edwin knew in his heart that she was lost to him.

Forever.

The knights moved to grab her, but as they reached out, Mela quickly shut her eyes and disappeared in a tiny column of fog, escaping the knight-lord’s clutches, denying him of the victory he thought complete.

Edwin sank into numbness, as his gaze fell once more upon his daughter’s doll, its threadbare black dress rustling in the cold wind.

But take heart, friends, for this tale . . . well, it’s only just begun.

CHAPTER 1

Friends in High Places

Aren’t Really Friends

Castle Riesenstadt stood as a lone bulwark against the evening sky, the stars bringing black night over the blue of the day. A peaceful interlude, save for the shouts and screams of battling knights, as just beyond the heavy iron gates, an abundant host of rot and decay shambled forth with deadly intent.

Their desiccated skin cracked and split like dried leather, freed from the confines of their moist tombs. Rusted helmets sat atop yellowed skulls, the armor ringing morbidly against their hardened bones. The middle ranks grasped at chipped, dull swords, while the front line brandished great axes to wrench an opening for their deathly comrades in tow.

A small straggle of knights found themselves backed up against the massive gates, the heavy wooden beams at their backs, doubly secured for the sake of the villagers just beyond.

And strewn all around them were the ravaged bodies of their brothers, lying still in the hardened dirt that was now slowly loosening in their blood.

Gripping his sword tightly, one of the knights turned and looked up toward the castle. Open the gates! he cried out, his voice deepened by his helmet, echoing over and over in his head. Sire! Please open the gates!

Considering the knight’s frantic pleas from high above, Renton glanced down for a moment, and then looked out to the plains now shrouded in night. Hunting for someone, something.

At his side was a young knight, his armor shining with immaculate perfection, his youthful face smooth and unblemished. Together they stood, towering over the deserted cobblestone streets and grey stone roofs safely ensconced behind them.

After a long moment of deliberation, Alain turned to Renton, his fingers nervously wrapped around the unused helmet at his side.

Father? he asked above the ragged shouts of the men below, the clanging of their blades fading away as fatigue began to settle in. Their shouts echoing in his ear, Alain waited for a response as Renton continued to stare ahead into the distance.

No, Renton answered.

There was a departed stillness to his voice—no compassion, just a simple utterance of a calculating word. Soon the shouts below turned into screams as the Untoten finally gained the upper hand—the whispers of the knights’ blades cutting through dead, dry limbs replaced by the wet squelches of the living being chopped to bloody chunks. Renton took in the carnage, unmoved, while his son turned his eyes away, unable to stomach what he was seeing.

These cowardly forays are beginning to tax my patience, Renton muttered in tired frustration. Alain saw his chance and turned to his father to beseech him once more.

Why not commit more men to the cause? Surely . . . But it was a proposition that came out more like a plea.

Renton frowned. Don’t be a fool.

He waited for the rest of his father’s admonition, but it never came. Instead, Alain forced himself to turn back toward the slaughter taking place below, where he spied one last knight, standing awash in his comrades’ blood.

Keldon Berna tore off his gore-caked helmet, the gold markings of his command still shining through. He hastily wiped the sweat and blood from his rough complexion, several scars masking the youth of his face and the early dash to his rank. The outline of his arms showed that, on a normal day, he would have no problems wielding the massive broadsword in his hands, but today was a much different day indeed. As he fought to stay alive, his swings degenerated into desperate, frantic bursts, the remaining Untoten warriors closing in as his strength deserted him. Despairing, he looked up and shouted out with the certainty that someone would hear his pleas.

Alain! Master Alain! Help me, please!

Mindless in their murderous pursuit, the Untoten ignored his cries for help and seized the opportunity to swarm him like a pack of wolves leaping upon their prey.

Alai—

His body disappeared under their mass, one last scream that ended in a wet crunch.

With Keldon dispatched, the Untoten ceased their movement and stood in complete silence. Then, as one, they turned and shuffled off, away from the castle. Up above, Alain closed his eyes, shaken by Keldon’s pleas . . . but the knight-lord’s expression stayed the same.

She’s merely baiting us. Testing our resolve.

She?

Renton nodded to the far distance, to the shadowy edge of the forest. Alain squinted, trying to spot whatever his father meant for him to see, looking over trees and tall grass—and there it was.

Under a shroud of heavy branches, a glint of steel caught his attention, blossoming into something much worse. Hundreds of still, quiet Untoten soldiers, lying in wait, for some unknown signal.

And in the midst of them, a woman, her face partially hidden by a heavy grey hood. Black diamonds for eyes, sparkling in the dim moonlight like the blades of her Untoten warriors. Alain swore under his breath as he imagined he saw the woman leering at him, but heavy clouds passed overhead, blocking out the moon’s silvery illumination. He gasped and walked a few more steps down the rampart, trying to catch another glimpse.

The misbegotten fruit of your brother’s dalliance now comes to haunt us after all these years, Renton said. Alain paled, realizing just what would’ve happened if they had indeed opened the gates . . . reminded, yet again, of why his father was who he was.

And with a seemingly endless supply of corpses at her disposal. Corpses bearing weapons and armor, not the moldering puppets we’ve faced in the past.

What can we do? Alain asked, regretting the choice of his artless