The Cavalier

The Cavalier - By Jason McWhirter


Prologue



Year 5045 of the Kraawnian Calendar, One thousand years after the Great War

Snow crunched under the horse’s hooves as the lone rider moved slowly up the mountain pass, his vigilant eyes scanning the rocky cliffs and scattered trees from under the shadows of his cloak. Bitter cold surrounded them, but the man and steed pushed forward through the deep snow, seemingly unaffected by its freezing embrace. It was very quiet; the silent song of falling snow bringing peace and serenity to the area. But this man’s heart did not reflect the tranquil setting. No, his mind was focused on his mission, his gloved hand occasionally gripping the bone handle pommel of the magical sword dangling from his hip.

He did not know exactly where he was going. His horse, Suatha, was leading the way. The beast’s head was held low, drawn forward by a magical pull. One thing the warrior did know was that evil was near. It always was, wherever he went, for that was his mission in life, to battle the darkness, to bring light where there was shadow. His entire persona radiated with the energy of the gods, making him a beacon to the evil minions of Kraawn, but at the same time giving him the power to combat the dark forces struggling for dominion of all things.

It was not just magic that he possessed, but skill; skill honed from constant years of fighting and training with every weapon. Silver armor, god-made, ensconced his muscled physique, reflecting the soft glow of the sun trying to push through the white clouds above.

Soon he would know his destination, and soon he would face powerful enemies. He could feel it deep within him. The purpose of his mission was so close and he was eager to uncover it, slicing through the dark veil with his silver sword.

His task was important, although he knew not why, but he felt as if the very existence of the beautiful surroundings he rode through depended on it.

6 months earlier…..

Gullanin shuffled his old withered body down the stone passageway, the glow of the braziers doing little to lighten the dark musty hallways of Banrith Castle. He was slightly bent over, his bony shoulders holding up a thick dark gray robe. The wood staff he carried was polished like obsidian. His well-worn robe draped his skeletal figure like a shroud covering a dried and emaciated corpse.

The hall was quiet except for the sliding of his sandaled feet and the rhythmic clicking his staff made on the dark stones. Gullanin’s long scraggly gray hair was held back by a silver skull cap. The cap was plain except for a single white eye, the symbol of his dark lord, Gould the Tormentor. Gullanin knew that Gould would be pleased with him, the excitement of this prospect making him smile broadly, exposing yellow rotting teeth, his thin pasty skin stretching from the expression seldom gracing his withered visage.

Turning the corner he came to a large door of thick oak held together with bands of black steel carved into the shape of clawed hands. Two massive orcs stood before the door, blocking entrance to all who were forbidden in this part of the castle. The orcs were thick of limb and their misshapen features appalled Gullanin. These were not ordinary orcs; they were called the Gould-Irin, orcs bred by Gullanin himself, deep in the pits of Banrith Castle. It took him many generations to perfect the breed. He had succeeded in creating impressive beasts that were larger, stronger, and with inexhaustible endurance in comparison to their brethren. Powerful magic and much time were required to create these beings, resulting in the relative scarcity of the Gould-Irin. There would be more, however, once the Dark One returned.

The Gould-Irin were excellent soldiers who did Gullanin’s bidding without question. These orcs were guarding the altar room to Gould himself, and only powerful followers were allowed here. The orcs, seeing Gullanin, quickly stepped aside. No one in Banrith questioned Gullanin, especially now that he had found a way to bring their lord back.

Gullanin waved his hand, whispering a word of power. Without even breaking stride the door opened and he walked through, the thick door swinging shut behind him.

The altar room was large and simple, the focus being a massive raised dais roughly five paces in diameter. This dais was as high as a man’s waist and the edges were covered with carvings of demons and other denizens of the lower planes. The top was polished black and glistened like oil. The entire floor of the altar room was carved into a giant eye, Gould’s mark, and it was painted white in contrast to the dark stone in which it was made. The black round altar was the pupil of this eye, the eye that saw all thought Gullanin, as he shuffled into the room.

Around the outer edge of the circular room were six suits of magnificent black armor. At least that is what they looked like. Gullanin glanced at them as he always did. The armor was as dark as midnight and covered in intricate runes and long serrated spikes. The dark helms were also spiked and ominous in appearance, matching the malevolent feeling permeating the entire room.

The armor stood like statues, but Gullanin knew that inside each suit was the withered remains of the black knights of legend. The dark warriors were called Banthras and they were created by his lord during the great wars many years ago. When Gullanin’s lord was banished by the long dead Ullis Gavinsteal, the ancient king of Finarth, the Banthras also left the material plane, waiting for their lord to return. Only their shells remained behind.

Normally the altar room was empty, but not today. Today was the day for which they had waited for over a thousand years. Gullanin could barely remember that far back. It seemed that he had been alive forever, the years melting together as memories disappeared and new ones formed. His magic and Gould’s power had kept him alive, and today he would be rewarded for his long service. Today his lord, Gould’s general on this plane of existence, would rise again and bring darkness to the lands of Kraawn.

Gullanin moved toward the altar where he was greeted by three men, each wearing long robes similar to his, but much different in every other aspect. Gullanin was a wizard of great power; these men were high priests to the Forsworn. They were given their power directly from Gould, Naz-reen, and Dykreel, whereas Gullanin harnessed his power directly from the Ru’Ach, the energy of all things.

Most people lived their entire lives and knew nothing of the Ru’Ach, and some, like Gullanin, spent their entire lives learning about the secrets of the Ru’Ach, and yet knew very little about it. Gullanin understood that everything had energy, and that this energy made up the Ru’Ach. He liked to think of it as a river of energy, a flow that powered everything, and if you had the skill and knowledge, could access it yourself. One thing Gullanin didn’t know was how did the gods fit into the picture? Did they create the Ru’Ach, or were they a construct of the Ru’Ach? It was a question that had eluded him his entire long life, and he figured he’d never find the answer.

Janrick, high priest to Gould, moved toward Gullanin with purpose. He was tall and wraith-like, his black robe sparkling with interwoven silver thread.

“Do you have it?” Janrick asked briskly.

Smiling, Gullanin showed his yellow and rotting teeth. He was going to savor this, for it was he who had found the book, not they.

“I do, Janrick,” Gullanin said whispering several words of power. Janrick moved away from the wizard, fearful that he was casting a spell at him. There was not a lot of trust between the minions of the Dark One, and why would there be? Personal gain and power was what the Forsworn stood for, and they were rewarded for being ruthless, greedy, and embodiments of injustice.

After a few seconds Gullanin held out his right hand and a swirling form began to materialize at his fingertips. It was square and lined in purple flames. When the flames disappeared, a small leather bound book lay in his hands. It looked old and insignificant.

“That is it?” asked Kane, high priest to Dykreel, not bothering to mask his disappointed tone. Kane was thick of belly, a direct correlation to his favorite past time…eating. He was a sloth, receiving great pleasure from food as well as torturing anyone who was an adherent to the benevolent gods of Kraawn. He lived to hear them cry in pain for their gods’ help. In the end they died screaming, seemingly abandoned by their gods. Kane’s great pleasure came when the light in their eyes extinguished, the look of despair on their face when their god did not come to save them.

“It is. I hold the book that thousands have been seeking for many lifetimes.” Gullanin noticed the skeptical looks of the priests. “Do not judge the power contained in this book by its appearance. I have been studying the book for weeks and have yet to begin to tap its true power.”

“Be careful, Gullanin, our lord will not be happy if he knows you sought the power for yourself,” replied Cuthare, high priest to Naz-reen. Cuthare was slight of build but Gullanin knew that he held more hatred and malice in that small body than the other two high priests combined. He was ambitious and powerful, and one to watch.

“Cuthare, I had to analyze the book in order to find a way to bring back our lord. That is all I did. Besides, much of the power is beyond even me, and it would take countless years to understand it in order to harness that power. The book will be intact for our lord, that I promise you. It is my gift to him,” Gullanin finished, putting emphasis on the word my.

Gullanin did not miss the looks of hatred they shot his way. Their jealousy was palpable, and Gullanin knew they would likely kill him now if they learned how to use the magic in the book themselves, but the priests needed him…at least for now.

“Let us start,” replied Janrick. “Our lord has waited long enough. Is the vessel ready?”

Gullanin, smiling, whispered another series of words. Instantly more braziers flared to life and a loud noise directed their attention to the ceiling where a strange metal object was being lowered by a thick heavy chain. As it neared the center of the altar it could be seen more clearly. It was a statue of Gould with his arms out wide. The incredible piece was made from some dark polished stone in the shape of a cross, the body of Gould the vertical line, his outstretched arms the horizontal.

Gould was usually pictured simply as a hooded man draped in a black robe, and the statue before them was that exact image, except that it was huge, twice as tall as Gullanin, and strapped to the statue was a naked man. His arms were lashed to the outstretched arms of the statue by thick leather and his legs were tied similarly to the body.

The unconscious man was heavily muscled and covered with many scars, some fresh but most long ago healed. The hair on his head was shaved showing several days of stubble. He was a perfect specimen of a warrior, powerful looking, with a thin waist and wide shoulders. The prisoner was handsome but his visage was hard, like stone.

“He is perfect, as you said,” stated Janrick. “How long have you had him?”

“I have been working on him for over fifteen years. It took a while to break him but our lord will appreciate the irony of who he is. He will be very pleased,” replied Cuthare. The other high priests smiled wickedly. All three turned towards Gullanin eagerly. “What’s next, wizard?” asked Cuthare.

“The procedure is quite simple really, but the spell is very complex and must be recited perfectly,” Gullanin said, lifting up the book before him. “Canzar,” he whispered. Instantly the book opened and flipped through several pages, stopping on one in particular. “Actually it is not even a prepared spell; it is something that I had to create using the correct phrases found in the book. It took me several days just to find the words, let alone figure out their meaning and the correct order in which….”

“Will it work?” interrupted Janrick. “I care not how you came up with the spell. Will it work?”

“Yes…theoretically it should work.”

“And if it doesn’t?” asked Kane.

“Then we are in the same place where we started. But, magic is not always exact, there could be some danger to us if the spell does not work,” replied Gullanin, enjoying their discomfort.

“Explain yourself,” ordered Cuthare.

“The energy of the spell will be released. If it does not bring our lord back, then it might bring something else back,” Gullanin explained. “After all, the words used are words for conjuring, mixed with other words of power. If you are afraid, then wait outside while I perform the spell.”

The three priests looked at each other, but they all seemed to be in agreement since no one went for the door.

“We need to be here when he arrives. Start the spell, wizard, and make sure there are no mistakes,” snarled Janrick as the three priests stepped back so that Gullanin could face the doomed man strapped to the statue.

Gullanin laughed silently. Janrick’s words were an empty threat. They were powerful priests but they would be hard pressed to defeat the magic of Gullanin the wizard. Gullanin had an arsenal of offensive and defensive spells that the priests would struggle to counter. But it wouldn’t come to a fight, at least not yet. They still needed him.

Gullanin stepped forward and cleared his mind of all thoughts except for the spell that he prepared. The spell was tricky, and there was some danger in using it. He did not lie about that. Gullanin was a powerful wizard, perhaps the most powerful wizard in Kraawn, but much of the book was beyond his powers. Gullanin wished he had had more time to tap the power of the book, but he knew that the Dark One would know if he did, and he did not want to anger him. The book was his gift to his lord.

Gullanin, glancing down at the book, looked at the words one more time, and then he started the spell.

“Athwa Dubel Spudentay”

“Athwa Nostronus Siek”

“Tuatha Lan Andros Kiel”

Gullanin began to say the words louder, and with more force. It was not just the correct pronunciation that made the spell difficult, but he had to use the correct verbal intonation and syntax. The way he said the words, the tone, the pace, the volume, all of which had an effect on the outcome of the spell.

“Dumanostros Mandan’Roh Luthor!”

Raising both his hands towards the altar, he recited the final words. The three priests, who were unsure of what was going to happen, slowly backed away from the focused wizard.

“Vel’Roh Ock Canthree Gyndoe!”

And he finished with his lord’s real name in elvish. The first words of magic originated with the elves millions of years ago and it was this language that tapped the true power of the Ru’Ach.

“Ell’eros Tyorthos!”

Instantly the flaming braziers in the room were extinguished followed by absolute silence.

All four of the men waited nervously until Janrick finally spoke. “What is happening?” he whispered, his tone strained from fear.

“I do not know. Now be silent and wait,” Gullanin hissed back.

Then, within the ancient stones of the castle, a deep rumbling grew to a crescendo, sounding like a powerful earthquake. All four of the men put their hands to their ears to shut out the piercing noise. As the sound reached its pinnacle, there came a loud clap followed by a bright purple light at the ceiling, above the altar. The light was translucent and it spun clockwise, like a whirlpool.

“It is working!” yelled Gullanin. “I have opened up a gate to the Ru’Ach!” Gullanin unconsciously moved backwards until he and the priests were standing against the wall. As they bumped into the stone, a bolt of purple energy shot from the gate hitting the statue of Gould. The man strapped to the statue shook violently as the energy shot through him, his legs and arms convulsing, his back arching involuntarily. The bolt lanced through him for several seconds before it rescinded back into the gate which disappeared before the four men could blink.

It was deathly quiet and pitch black. They silently waited several seconds before Gullanin noticed a pair of red glowing orbs from across the room.

“Do you see those red dots?” whispered Kane. “What are they?”

“They are eyes,” Gullanin quietly replied. As he said that, several more sets of red eyes appeared in five other spots around the room. Then it came to him.

“The black knights; they are awake,” the wizard whispered excitedly.

“They are not the only thing that is awake!” a deep booming voice rang out from the darkness. Simultaneously the braziers came to life, spreading their orange glow over the contents of the room.

Standing before them was a tall muscled man, completely naked. It was the man from the statue, but he looked different. He was taller, a full head taller than a Gould-Irin orc, with a bluish tone to his skin. His face was still hard, but it had changed as well. His features were more pointed and angular, his ears almost elvish. His teeth came to razor sharp tips and his eyes were a translucent white. Short, choppy, jet black hair framed a chiseled, but demonic face. The man, if it was a man anymore, was flexing his arms and hands and looking at himself in wonder. His massive striated muscles grew in size as he flexed them.

Then he laughed. The sound was loud and gravelly and full of power. His laughter reverberated in the circular room like an echo. Instantly the four men fell to their knees and bowed.

Gullanin was the first to speak. “My Lord, welcome back to Kraawn.”