Knights of Aralia Book II: Evil Rising

Chapter II: Lieutenant Abendroth

The sun shone bright and clear over the Kingdom of Aralia. A light wind blew through the leaves of the trees that covered much of the island as the blue-green waters of the Sea of Alenius gently lapped up against its solid, rocky shores. Across the open fields near the north end of the island, two riders raced at full gallop through the fresh air of this mid-spring morning.

The first, a young man with dark blond hair and lightly bronzed skin, looked every inch a knight of the Golden Tree. He wore a dark leather jerkin with a riding cloak of blue wool flowing loosely behind him, and was girded by a sword of exquisite Drakonic craft—the blade of his ancestors. The second, younger by a year, carried on his back an elaborately carved hunting bow and a pair of short swords, and was clad in similar fashion. His hair was nearly black, and his dark eyes shone with a carefree light. They came to an abrupt stop at the top of a high hill overlooking the city of Aralia.

“Ha! Just a little too slow this time, brother,” said the elder, panting from the exertion.

“What are you talking about?” spoke the younger. “I had you beat by a country mile.”

“Until the last stretch, and it is only he who finishes in the lead that takes the crown, Wavae.”

“All right all right.” Wavae waved dismissively. “We’ll call it a draw then, shall we?”

The elder sibling did not dignify the remark with an answer, but looked away to the west.

“How long has it been, Béragon?” Wavae spoke again, mopping his brow. “Two years?”

“Almost,” replied Béragon. “In a couple of months. Anyway, what does it matter?”

“It doesn’t. I was just wondering, that’s all. It seems like the days pass so wonderfully slowly here. And yet they’re gone like that.” He snapped his fingers.

Béragon nodded. “Agreed. There’s something almost...I dare say uncanny about this Island of Aralia. It’s so unlike our old home in Hengoroth. In the best possible ways, of course.”

“It’s just as peaceful, though,” spoke Wavae, watching as a pair of ballistae set up earlier that morning prepared to shoot. “Well, for the most part. But of course, peaceful can become a bit stale after a while too. I still can’t believe they didn’t send us south with the rest of the expeditionary force. I mean, we’re the Wolves! Aralia’s toughest and finest. We’ve seen battles most couldn’t even imagine. Why are they holding us back?”

“I suppose it has something to do with the build-up of Eastern forces around Ralgar,” answered Béragon as they surveyed the vast Forest of Alenius away to the south. “The Council needs to hold some of our strength in reserve in case something comes of that.”

A mechanical creak rang out across the fields, followed by a loud c***k. They turned to see a pile of stones topple as a missile hurled from one of the ballistae smashed into it. The crew gave a mighty cheer.

Wavae nodded with approval. “Looks like the war Lord Maritius foresaw is finally on our doorstep.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Béragon wistfully. “He was right about a good many things in the end.”

They paused for a moment at the memory of their cherished mentor. They had not known him as well as most of their friends, having arrived in Aralia many weeks later. But what little they had seen of him had inspired their deepest admiration. The noble knight had, after all, been a legend in his own time.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to stay out of this one when it comes,” said Béragon. “It is said the Aylar have been making raids west of the Bluefalls, threatening all the major land routes. And if Ralgar is invaded on top of this, the Council will undoubtedly call for action.”

“Undoubtedly,” repeated Wavae. Eager to change the subject, he sighed and went on, “Speaking of the Council, isn’t the ceremony tonight?”

“I believe so.”

“It’s nice to know that some of ours are finally being recognized. I was starting to wonder.” He paused and looked over his shoulder. “What do you know? Yonder comes one of the new officers now.”

Béragon, too, turned. A brown horse bearing their auburn-haired, hazel-eyed friend Morgan was galloping towards them. Beside her rode another of their companions named Evander, seated atop a mare whose reddish coat nearly matched the colour of his hair. The two knights saluted with fists to their hearts as they came nearer. Béragon and Wavae mirrored the gesture.

“What ho, fellow riders!” said Wavae. “Out enjoying the weather, are you?”

“That we are,” responded Evander in his distinctive rustic dialect. “I take it the two o’ thee are doin’ likewise?”

“Indeed. And how fares Lieutenant Falk this fine morning?”

“Well enough, de Haas,” said Morgan in her most officerial manner.

“You’re too good at that,” said Wavae.

Morgan shrugged. “Just a born leader, I guess.”

“All those hours spent in the library have paid off, it seems,” said Béragon.

“That may have something to do with it as well, yes,” Morgan conceded.

“Well, congratulations anyway,” resumed Wavae. “To you and to Fordain.”

“Thank you.”

The second ballista loosed a massive arrow, which missed its target by a mile.

“Any more news in from the port or the Tower?” inquired Béragon, watching the artillery captain throw down his javelin and turn to berate his crew.

Morgan nodded.

“Plenty,” she said. “It seems the Cairagan ban on trade with Ralgar still holds, even after all our offers to mediate. Besides that, the reports about Aylar attacking travellers on the roads west of the Bluefalls have increased in the last month.”

“And they’re sure the attackers are Aylar?” asked Wavae.

“There is no doubt about it. Many witnesses have made the claim, and as you know, there is little mistaking Aylar for anything else.”

“Not that I’ve ever seen one myself,” he pointed out.

“Nor have any of us, but that’s beside the point. Some are claiming that the Cairaga have made a formal alliance with them, and the Council is none too pleased about it.”

“I can imagine. The thought of a war with the two biggest realms on earth would be a little unsettling to me too.”

“Then prepare to be unsettled, for I’ve no doubt we’ll be sent in this time.”

“All that aside,” spoke Evander, “Even should the West decide t’intervene, ‘ow are th’Ralgarians t’receive any aid if th’roads are bein’ covered by villainous sorts?”

“The West should have intervened by now, if you ask me,” said Béragon. “Eight months already they have suffered. How long are they to go on like this?”

“I don’t know, but I dare say not much longer,” replied Morgan, looking back toward the city and its formidable walls. “At least, not if Aralia has anything to say about it.”

“Well, come on then,” said Evander. “Enough o’ this serious talk. We’d best be gettin’ back. The day’s gettin’ ‘otter, an’ we’ve all got t’be at our best for the ceremony tonight.”

“Agreed,” said Wavae. “All this sun is playing murder on my beautiful complexion. Lead the way, my good fellow.”

Evander shook his head at Wavae’s assumed hauteur, and the four turned to make for the walls of Aralia at a brisk gait. They soon came to the main gates and passed through into the ancient city beyond. In the distance, another ballista let fly.

“Higher! Higher! Don’t lower your sword unless you want your opponent lowering his onto your neck.”

The east training yard rang out with the clashing of arms as two young Aralians sparred with two recent recruits. Standing to the side was a black-haired, blue-eyed officer only a little older than the lot of them. He was fully armoured in the manner of an Imperial soldier, save for his bare feet, which marked him as hailing from the hardy Noronir tribes of Emprius. He watched as another Noronir youth with dark blonde hair, ruddy brown skin, and eyes of oceanic blue disarmed a young female Draga. She sank to her knees in defeat.

“You see what I mean, Linde?”

“Yes, Lieutenant Abendroth, sir.”

“I’m not a lieutenant yet,” replied the young knight, giving her a hand up. “Just Fordain.”

“It is a mere matter of formality now,” pointed out the other instructor, a dark-haired, dark-eyed lad named Dèscar. “If your friends and future subordinates cannot address you as such, who can?”

Dèscar was one of Fordain’s oldest and closest friends since his arrival in Aralia. He was a somewhat mysterious fellow, and he liked to keep it that way. Little was known about his past, aside from the fact that he originally came from the Kingdom of Cairaga, and he was an exceptional swordsman—one of the best on the island, it was said. Even older knights recognized his prowess, and Fordain was hard-pressed to equal him in a duel. But side by side they formed a remarkable team.

“Dèscar’s right, sir,” said the young Pirakoan with whom Dèscar had just been sparring. “It’s not like the Council’s going to suddenly change their mind and take it away from you.” He looked beyond to the approaching officer. “Right Captain Ambrosius, sir?”

“‘Fraid Hesperos has got a point there, old son,” agreed Captain Theodorus Ambrosius—Theo to most. Like Fordain, Theo came from the northwest of Emprius, and so spoke in a dialect of which Fordain retained only a hint. “You’re an officer, like it or not. And after two years o’ staunch service to Wolf Company, I can’t think of anyone deserves it more. Besides, someone’s got to take over Fifteenth Section now I’m movin’ up to cohort level.”

“Well, at least I’ll still have you breathing down my neck,” retorted Fordain.

“Aye indeed.”

“And now you’ll be breathing down ours, right Fordain?” said Dèscar, also a member of the Fifteenth.

“If that’s what it takes to keep your senses sharp, mate.”

“Well, I reckon you’ll be wantin’ the rest o’ the day to get ready for this evenin’,” said Theo. “So let’s cut trainin’ a tad short, shall we?”

“Very good, sir,” said Fordain, turning to the recruits. “Well done, Hesperos. Linde. You’re both making fine progress. Keep practising, and you might just earn yourselves a place in the ranks one day soon.”

“Thank you, Fordain sir!” said the eager youngsters, saluting as he walked away. He sheathed his sword and Dèscar came up beside him.

“Where are you off to, then?” he asked.

“I think I’ll just go check on Solus, then head to the baths. Care to come along?”

Dèscar shook his head. “No. I’ve got my own plans. But I’ll meet you on the way to the Council Chamber this evening, all right?”

“Right. See you, mate.”

“Until then.”

Lieutenant!

The word sounded at once pleasing and frightening to Fordain as he sat contemplating it in the warm waters of Aralia’s bathhouse. He was glad to be receiving recognition for his efforts, certainly. But he could not help realizing that up until now he had always been just another young knight, following orders and doing as he was told. Now he would be giving orders as well. Other knights’ lives might depend on his decisions, and he was not entirely sure he was ready for such responsibility. Evidently Commander Lord Alexander of Emprius, his old friend and now leader of Wolf Company, thought he was ready, for he had been the one to suggest the promotion. Either way, it was the first event of note to occur since earning his knighthood in the Imperial Civil War, and a great honour besides.

As he was getting dressed afterward, he paused to examine his lucky amulet before placing it around his neck. It was made of pure silver, and had on it the emblem of a circle inside a triangle with wavelike scrolls on either side. He knew it was a family heirloom, but beyond that, he had no idea what it meant. And though he had seen it in other places since coming to Aralia, no one else could tell him much either. The only one who would have known for sure was his father, but he had never taken the time to explain its significance before his untimely death. Still, Fordain always kept it close by to remind him of the loving family he had once had, and of the long and storied past he had earned in his relatively short life.

Fordain finished dressing and made for a local establishment called the Mess. It had indeed been Aralia’s mess hall once long ago, but was now a place known for its good quality, low-priced food and the occasional stage act. The blend of primarily Imperial, Drakonic, and High Northern culture evident in every aspect of its construction made it uniquely Aralian, like so many buildings around town. Here he continued to ponder this and that as he ate, though he was interrupted several times by people stopping by his table to congratulate him.

He was half tempted to remind them how little a promotion actually mattered outside of wartime. As the great General Lord Elezier had once put it, “Rank in Aralia means a great deal more than it is worth.” Still, it was cause for celebration, and as promotions were a rare thing during peacetime, the congratulations flowed more profusely than they otherwise would have. So, Fordain simply thanked them and shook hands when offered, then treated himself to a strawberry torte afterward. As evening shadows began to fall, he left and made for the city centre.

Along the way he met up with Dèscar as expected. His fellow knight caught his attention with a touch on the shoulder and a curt nod—the most anyone could hope to get out of the severe young Cairagan.

“What took you so long?” he asked.

“I decided to eat at the Mess.”

“I just ate there myself a little while ago. The bread was a tad stale today.”

“Agreed.”

“Well, shall we move along?”

The two walked down the central avenue toward the Council Chamber at the heart of the city in high spirits. As they were nearing their destination, however, they were approached by a handsome, well-dressed man of impressive stature. This was none other than Lord Alton Pélégor of Dagland, the latest member of the Council elected as a replacement for Lord Grathnor of Draakland after his death the year before. Fordain had never particularly warmed up to the Daglander. His sense of self-righteousness and haughty attitude around those he deemed less important than himself—which was just about everyone—simply rubbed the very humble young knight the wrong way. Not to mention that nervous little chuckle he gave out when he was mildly amused by something. How a man like that had ever been nominated to the Council of Aralia, much less actually elected, he could never guess. But, he figured, the councillors must have had their reasons, so he stopped and saluted the senior knight by placing his fist over his heart.

“Good evening, Lord Pélégor,” said Fordain.

“Greetings, young knights,” said Pélégor with a slightly contemptuous emphasis placed on the final word that did not escape the notice of either Fordain or his companion. “I understand there is a little ceremony to take place in honour of you, Master Abendroth.”

“Yes,” replied Dèscar for his friend. “Fordain here is to become Lieutenant Abendroth, as per the Council’s decree.”

“Aah yes, of course,” said the older knight with that unnerving chuckle that made Fordain shudder. “A lieutenant. No doubt it’s about time you were recognized for your contributions, eh?” He paused, though not long enough for a response. “Needless to say, we shall be following your exploits with a very keen eye henceforth.”

“Thank you, Lord Pélégor,” spoke Fordain, uncertain whether that was to be taken as a compliment or not. “I take it you’ll be in attendance this evening?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Pélégor with the same nonchalance as before. “I have some rather pressing matters to attend to up in the Tower. Duty first, you know. Still, I congratulate you all the same.”

Fordain said nothing more, but saluted again out of respect. Lord Pélégor did not trouble himself so, but contented himself with a careless wave of the hand which seemed to say “Off with you then!” before brushing past them on his way toward the Tower of the Messenger Corps.

“I don’t know what it is exactly,” said Dèscar as he watched Pélégor carry on briskly down the street, “but something about that man confounds me like no other.”

“Come now,” Fordain defended him without knowing why. “He’s simply preoccupied, as we all are at times.” He paused, likewise looking back. “But I know what you mean.”

Thus, the two companions came to the central square where there grew a great ash tree of a unique ruddy golden hue: the awe-inspiring symbol of Aralia and all that it stood for. Fordain paused before it, thinking of the very first time he had looked upon it two summers ago now. He had grown much and seen many wondrous sights since then, but still none compared to the splendour of the Golden Tree.

Dèscar snapped him out of it with a gentle nudge, and they proceeded to the Council Chamber. A guard at the door recognized them and let them pass without further inspection. Upon entering, they found the rest of their companions and most of the Aralian Council members assembled and waiting. Morgan was there, talking to two fellow knights named Elagor and Lampolo. She broke off her conversation with as soon as Fordain and Dèscar arrived and walked over to greet them.

“Good evening, Fordain,” she said with a salute and accompanying smile.

“Good evening, Morgan,” said Fordain, mirroring her gestures.

“This is more of a gathering than I’d expected,” remarked Dèscar.

“It is that,” replied Morgan with a sheepish grin, and what Fordain discerned as a couple bats of the eyelashes toward Dèscar. “Everyone of importance is here, it seems.”

“Except Lord Pélégor,” muttered Dèscar to Fordain.

“Well, shall we take our places, Fordain?” suggested Morgan.

“I suppose we shall,” said he, and together the two made their way to the centre of the floor just in front of the platform where King Frolin and Queen Falin stood, receiving several more congratulations on the way down. Lord Elezier, the grizzled old veteran knight from the High North, stood before them in anticipation.

He was an outwardly intimidating figure, Lord Elezier. Bearing a haggard-looking beard of medium grey and white, he had a piercing gaze and a right arm that he could not lift as high as the other from a shoulder wound received when he was much younger. But in truth he was one of the ablest, most brilliant knights in Aralia. Being the oldest Human member of the Order, he was also considered one of the wisest knights on the island, and occupied the position of General of Aralian forces: a title he wielded with exceptional ability.

“Aah! At last you are here,” he said of Fordain in his singular rasp tinged with the inflections of a Northerner. “Let us begin without delay, shall we?”

“Aye, sir.”

The crowd now fell silent as the two honorees took a firm stance side by side in anticipation of receiving their honours. Lord Elezier took his seat beside the other Council members, and King Frolin addressed a few words to the audience.

“Dear Aralians,” he began as though composing a letter. “We have gathered here this magnificent spring eve to confer upon these two young warriors of our sacred circle the honours due to them for their service and dedication to this kingdom and its principles. We look forward to seeing what further experience and wisdom will enable you to do, and sincerely hope that someday in the near future, we will see you again upon this floor for the purpose of conferring further honours upon you and your comrades for the glory and prestige you bring through your words and deeds to yourselves and to the Golden Order of Aralia.”

A round of polite applause ensued, accompanied by ample whisperings around the room as King Frolin took out his sword, holding it with both hands so that the blade was pointed directly toward the ceiling. Then, stepping up to Fordain, he held out the sword so that the flat edge hovered just inches above his left shoulder. He then spoke a few brief sentences in an archaic form of speech which signified the formality of the occasion.

“Fordain Abendroth of Emprius,” he began loudly enough to be heard by everyone. “Thou art summoned here by the Council of Aralia in recognition of thy service to this hallowed body. As King of the Golden Order, I hereby confer upon thee, with thy consent, the rank of First Lieutenant in the Army of Alenius. Doest thou accept?”

“I do,” replied Fordain with great solemnity despite the excited pounding of his heart.

King Frolin moved the sword over to Fordain’s right shoulder as he spoke next:

“Then be it so. I proclaim thee First Lieutenant Abendroth of Aralia.”

A small cheer of “Ves!” followed by the requisite answer “Hail!” followed these words before silence resumed.

King Frolin repeated this series of declarations and affirmations for Morgan, replacing “First” with “Second” in the process. With Morgan’s “I do” came another round of cheering from the audience, at the end of which King Frolin stepped up and informed the crowd that this concluded the evening’s ceremony, but that all were welcome to remain for the continuance of celebrations afterward. All but a very small few partook of the invitation, and continued to linger about the Council Chamber for some time in conversation with one another—and in the case of some, delved deep into the kegs of wine brought out for the occasion. Fordain and Morgan received further congratulatory remarks from their friends and comrades. As he was speaking with Evander and a beautiful young lady named Ingred, they were accosted by Lord Elezier.

“I congratulate you again on your promotion,” said the old warrior.

“I suppose I have you to thank for it, sir,” replied Fordain.

“No. You have only yourself to thank. You earned it, lad.”

“Well, I couldn’t have done so without help then.”

Elezier smiled with amusement at Fordain’s persistent humility. Then, looking around a bit, he added, “I would like the three of you to return to the Council Chamber an hour after the festivities have ended.”

“Of course,” replied Fordain, and the old general strode off to inform the other members of their unit.

Ingred regarded the other two with some consternation. What, she asked with her gaze, could possibly be so urgent as to warrant their return at such a late hour? As Evander and Fordain looked at each other, however, they knew perfectly well what it was about, based on a discussion they had had that morning. It appeared that the new commander of Fifteenth Section would not have long to wait before receiving his first test.