Daughter of Fate - Chapter 1
Ikar's heart quickened as his horse rounded a curve in the mountainside, revealing a town nestled on the edge of the fiord below...
The Knights of Alana is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. When Knights attack the temple of Skystead, seventeen-year-old Pela is the only one to escape. Her mother and the other villagers are taken, accused of worshiping the False Gods. They will pay the ultimate price – unless Pela can rescue them. Pela has never left the safety of her town, let alone touched a sword. What chance does she have against the ruthless Knights of Alana? She’s not a hero. But she knows one…
But she knows one.
Her uncle Devon was a mighty warrior once, in times when magic filled the world. Age has withered his strength and he retired long ago, but maybe he will answer the call of family. Can Pela convince him to stand against the darkness one last time?
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Ikar's heart quickened as his horse rounded a curve in the mountainside, revealing a town nestled on the edge of the fiord below. The setting sun shone on the crystal blue waters, where several ships bobbed at anchor, shielded from the open ocean by the enclosing arms of Golden Ridge. Barely a cloud could be seen in the sky and the slopes ahead were a parched-brown, strewn with gravel except where the thin line of the trail wound its way down towards the village.
Studying the quiet seaside settlement, Ikar wondered how a place so beautiful could breed such treason.
“We have arrived,” he announced, twisting in his saddle.
His armour creaked, confining his movement, and though the heavy steel had long been a part of him, he felt a moment’s longing to hurl it from him. The journey through the mountains had taken over a week, and in all that time he had removed his armour only to sleep. It was forbidden for a Knight of Alana to remove his helmet in public, least an unbeliever learn their identity.
But with the summer sun beating down upon them, the faith of even the most devout of Knights had been tested. The Saviour had granted them her strength though, and none had given in to temptation.
Only Merak, an Elder of the Order of Alana, was permitted to go without his helmet. He edged his horse past Ikar to study the landscape.
“The Saviour has blessed us.” His voice was soft, for he was far older than the rest of their party. He was one of the first of their Order, born in the days before magic left the world. His days as a Knight were long past, but an Elder had been needed for this quest, and he had volunteered. “We have arrived in time to thwart another of their profane ceremonies.”
“You are sure?” Ikar asked, edging his horse alongside the Elder.
The shuffling of hooves on gravel came from behind them as the other Knights pressed forward, eager to see an end to their quest. Word had reached their Castle weeks ago, brought to them by a devout farmer who had stumbled upon the ritual while tending his goats. They’d been fortunate; this was old country and there were few believers in the Saviour. Ikar shuddered to think how long the evil here had been left unchecked.
Ikar tightened his grip on the reins. How anyone could commit such blasphemy was beyond him. For a thousand years, the Three Nations had suffered beneath the yolk of the False Gods. Only thirty years ago had they finally been liberated, when the divine Alana had slain the Gods and purged the world of their magic.
Before that fateful day, Magickers had roamed the Three Nations at will. Granted powers beyond imagining by the False Gods, they had wielded their magic without thought of consequence. Those not cursed with power had been reduced to nothing, slaves to the will of Magickers.
After the death of magic, many had despaired, so accustomed had they been to the rule of the Gods. Thousands had suffered as the rulers of the Three Nations sought to survive without the crutch of magic. Amidst the chaos, the Order of Alana had been born. The first Elders had shown the lost the way, revealing a new path—the true path—for humanity, one of independence and freewill.
But there were those who still longed for the past, who wished to restore the power of the False Gods. They gathered in the shadows, joining their minds, seeking out old secrets. Perhaps they even knew the truth, that with the solstice approaching, the old powers were rising.
The thought filled Ikar with rage, but with an effort of will he pressed it down. A Knight must always remain in control, for they were blessed with the strength of the Saviour, and had sworn to wield it only in service to the Order. The Elders had plans for the ones below, designs that would ensure their false Gods would be forever bound in the darkness.
“I am sure,” Merak finally answered Ikar’s question. He turned and addressed two of their Knights. “There is a ship at the pier. You will go ahead and convince the captain to grant us passage.”
“We will not fail you, Elder,” the Knights answered, their voices made metallic by their helmets.
Ikar shivered as the Elder’s eyes fell on him. “Ikar.”
He inclined his head. “Yes, Elder.”
“They say you are descended from Alan the Great, who fought the False Gods on the walls of Fort Fall.”
“It is true, sir,” Ikar replied, his heart pounding hard in his chest.
“Then in the name of your ancestor, I ask you to lead our Knights against the enemy.”
Merak pointed down the path towards the town, and Ikar saw now the ruins of a temple rising from the slope of the mountain. The three spires of the False Gods had begun to crumble. Only one now stood. Ikar took it as a sign and smiled.
“May Alana bless our swords.”
Pela let out a long breath as she topped the stone stairs and stepped onto the ramparts of Skystead. She had finished her chores early—mopping up the floors of the dining room, hanging out the linens for drying, refilling the stable troughs—and had departed before their guests in the upstairs rooms had awoken. Despite spending all of her seventeen years growing up in the town’s only inn, Pela preferred her own company, and had little desire to stammer through pleasantries with the strangers.
They were leaving today anyway, heading out on the ship that had come into port the night before. Hearing the shouts of the captain from below, Pela stepped up to the edge of the crenellations. The wall fell sharply into deep water beneath where she stood, but away to her right were the main gates of the town. They opened out onto the stone docks, where sailors carrying wares darted frantically to and fro. With high tide only two hours away, they would need to be quick if they wanted to depart this morning.
Pela thought they would probably make it. The captain looked like an experienced hand. With no other travellers in sight, the inn would be peaceful tonight—though her mother, Kryssa, would be worried at the lack of business.
Thinking of her mother, Pela sighed. No doubt Kryssa would be searching for her by now, to drag Pela to their weekly meditation at the temple.
As though summoned by her thoughts, a distant voice echoed from the town. “Pela!”
Pela slid off the crenellation and ducked down, hoping her mother had not spotted her. The walls stood some thirty feet high and the two-storey roofs of the town were well below her. Most of the buildings in Skystead were built of stone and stood side by side with no space between them, except where the narrow alleyways crisscrossed the larger avenues. Below the streets were a maze, but for the agile, the flat rooftops often offered faster passage around the town.
But Pela’s mother, who turned her nose at such notions, would be in the alleys below. She would not spot Pela on her remote perch.
“Pela, I know you’re up there!” Her mother’s voice rang from the stone walls, sounding as though she were directly below.
Cursing, Pela stood and looked into the alley behind the wall. Kryssa stood with hands on hips, a furious scowl etched across her face. In many ways, she was Pela’s twin, though Kryssa was outspoken where Pela was quiet. Her mother wore the platinum hair that marked them both as outsiders in a tidy braid. The sight made Pela wish she’d at least run a brush over her head that morning. Their sun-kissed skin, narrow noses, and sharp cheekbones proved their relation. Only their eyes were different: her mother’s a brilliant silver, while Pela’s were a hazel-green she was told had come from her long-deceased father.
“What do you want?” Pela called down.
“You know what, young lady,” Kryssa hissed, her voice quieter now.
“I told you, I don’t want to go anymore,” Pela groaned. “All those people…can’t I just meditate up here?”
Kryssa tapped her foot on the tiled road. “You still live under my roof, young lady. Until you turn eighteen, you’ll do as I say.”
“Or what?” Eighteen was still months away.
“Would you like to clean out the barn tonight?”
Pela suppressed a groan. “Fine!” she relented. “I’ll meet you there.”
Before her mother could call her back, she darted along the ramparts to one of the taller buildings. Here, the drop to the rooftop was only five feet. She leapt before her mind could dwell on the fall, her boots thumping down hard. A voice called up from the alley, but Pela was already gone, leaving her mother behind.
She took the circular route across the town towards the mountain path, her good mood restored. She was in no rush to beat her mother to Temple. If she took enough time, meditation might already be underway when she arrived, and she would not have to bother herself with any clumsy conversations.
Mountain peaks loomed overhead as she wandered the rooftops. Skystead straddled a narrow patch of land where Golden Ridge met the deep fiords of the coast. They were as far south as anywhere in Plorsea, and it was a long boat ride and a longer walk to anything else resembling civilisation. Only once in her seventeen years had Pela made the trip to Townirwin, the nearest settlement, and that had been so long ago she barely remembered it.
Her gaze roamed the skyline as she neared the mountain gate. A winding road led up the steep slope, where a dozen workers could already be seen making their way to work. High above, beyond sight of town, the coffee plantations that were Skystead’s lifeblood awaited. Even further up, the road led eventually to the nation of Trola. But no one ventured there now, not since the Trolan King had closed their borders under penalty of death.
But Pela’s destination was nowhere near so far. Three hundred feet above the town, a second path branched from the main road, leading along the stark slopes to where a cluster of ruins clung to the mountainside.
Once three spires had risen above the walls of granite and marble, but only the jagged remnants of one remained now. The outer walls were mostly solid, though small sections had begun to crumble, the mortar rotted away. Summer storms had taken their toll, smashing in the roof in several places, leaving the insides exposed to the elements. One day, it was said, the whole thing would be washed away, and all that remained of the Three Gods would vanish from Skystead.
The temple had been abandoned for over thirty years, but only in recent times had the ruins become a source of controversy. There were those who said now that the Three Gods had been evil, that the gift of their magic had been a poisoned chalice, that they had enslaved humanity to some unknown purpose.
For Pela’s mother and others who still knew their history, the Three Gods remained the true saviours of the Three Nations.
Coming to the edge of town, Pela found a narrow staircase and returned to ground level. There was no sign of her mother at the gates, but far above she spotted Kryssa at the fork in the road. Despite the distance, Pela could sense the anger radiating from her mother’s distant figure. Her cheeks warmed, and feeling slightly abashed, she hurried up the winding path.
Within minutes her calves were burning. The mountainside was steep here, rising sharply from the fiord up to the peaks three thousand feet above. There were exactly 1,555 steps from the town to the temple—Pela had counted them many times before—and in the burning summer sun, her tunic was quickly soaked with sweat. The undulating mountains of Golden Ridge stretched away to the north in an unbroken line, dividing the lands of Plorsea from Trola to the west.
It took half an hour to make the crossroad, and another ten minutes to reach the ruins. The mountainside was quiet as she approached; her mother and the others must have already begun their meditation. Her shame returning, Pela darted through the doorway. Darkness engulfed her and she let out a sigh, relieved to be out of the sun.
Inside, cursory efforts had been made at repairs, though rays of light still filtered through cracks in the ceiling. Whispers carried down the corridor, drawing Pela deeper into the ruin. The temperature dropped as she followed the familiar path towards the central chambers. Rubble lay strewn across the granite tiles hazardous in the dark, but Pela had explored these corridors as a child, and could have negotiated the temple blindfolded.
The whispers grew louder as Pela turned a corner and found herself at the entrance to the main chamber. At least two dozen villagers were already present. Many had taken up positions on the faded emerald and sapphire carpets, their eyes closed, and legs crossed as they sought the inner calm taught by the Gods. Several others still stood near the entrance speaking quietly. An old man, his face wrinkled and hair grey with age, saw her and offered a greeting.
“Welcome, Pela,” he murmured, “it is good to see you. How are you?”
Pela’s heart beat faster as he held out both hands, palms up. She took them in hers and smiled, though internally she was struggling desperately to recall his name. The awkward silence stretched out as he looked at her with kind eyes.
She opened her mouth, garbled something nonsensical, then blurted out: “Thank you!”
Her cheeks grew hot and she darted past him before he could ask anything else. Internally, she cursed her bumbling tongue. Slipping between the seated meditators, she approached the altar and lit a stick of incense to honour the Goddess Antonia, setting it alongside those already left by others.
As she turned away, she caught the scent of rose petals and earth in her nose. Instantly, her mind was whisked away to a forest grove, lit by sun and filled with the chattering of squirrels and the whispers of branches in the breeze. She clung to the image, but inevitably the realm of the Earth Goddess faded, leaving her standing once more before the altar.
Letting out a long sigh, Pela searched for her mother. Finding Kryssa seated cross-legged nearby, she sat beside her. Kryssa cast a sidelong glance in her direction and Pela quickly lowered her eyes. She didn’t know why her mother dragged her here every week.
Everyone knew the Three Gods were dead.
Hearing her mother’s breathing deepen, Pela looked back up. Her mother had begun to meditate, but Pela’s heart was still racing from the climb. Silence had fallen over the room, the last of the meditators taking their places on the carpet. Coffee incense burned on the altar at the front of the room, where candles illuminated a mural that took up the entire wall. It depicted the Three Gods—Jurrien, Antonia, and Darius—united together against the Dark Magicker Archon, who had twice tried to conquer the Three Nations.
In the end, the Three Gods had destroyed him utterly, but in doing so they had retreated from the world. Their temples had been abandoned then, the citizens of the Three Nations turning to other pursuits.
But the gift of their magic had remained, and in the Gods’ absence, Magickers had thrived, and many had abused their power. Eventually the Tsar had risen, uniting the Three Nations beneath his tyranny and vowing to sponge all magic from the land.
Some legends claimed the Gods had tried to cast him down, others that they’d supported him. Only one thing was agreed upon—that it had been Alana, the Tsar’s daughter, who had destroyed the Three Gods.
And magic with them.
The world had changed in the thirty years since. Now it was the warrior who ruled, the power of the sword worshiped above all else. And a new cult had been born with the death of the Gods—the Order of Alana. They worshipped her as their Saviour, believed her sacrifice had cast off the shackles of the Gods, beckoning in a new era of enlightenment.
Only a few, like Pela’s mother and her departed grandmother, remained faithful to the Three Gods. It was partly in respect for her grandmother that Pela came at all. Selina had been a ferocious woman, well known around the village for her sharp knives and sharper tongue. Even approaching ninety, she had still visited the temple for the weekly meditation. In the end, only death had stopped her.
Pela had asked her once why she bothered. After all, Selina had been alive during the days of magic. She knew better than anyone that the Gods were truly gone. But the old woman had only smiled.
Antonia saved my life once. She and her brothers may be gone, but what they did for us should never be forgotten.
Smiling at the memory, Pela’s mind drifted to the days before her grandmother’s passing. They had often gone to visit her uncle after temple, who would greet them with honey cakes and ginger ale. The best roof-builder in Skystead, he was a giant of a man and not really her uncle, though that was all Pela had ever known him as. There were those in the village who said he had been a warrior once, but Pela had only ever known him as a kindly man with greying hair and smile lines on his cheeks.
She had not seen him since her grandmother’s funeral. Kryssa had insisted that Pela keep away, though she had never offered any explanation. That had been almost five years ago now. It saddened Pela to think of him alone in the big house he had shared with her grandmother. As a child, they had all lived in the inn, running it together, but those days were long ago now. All Pela could recall from those days was the faded image of them all gathered around the fireplace on a cold winter night.
Realising she’d become side-tracked from her meditation, Pela dragged her thoughts back to the present, concentrating instead on her own body. Eyes closed, she centred herself, focusing on the slow in-out of her breath, on the distant thudding of her heart, the pulsing of blood in her ears. Nearby, she heard the faint whisper of another’s breath, the rustling of cloth, the faint tap-tapping of some rodent hidden in the walls. Her mind examined each of them in turn before releasing them. Slowly, her consciousness sank, and she reached for her inner cal—
Bang.
Pela startled out of her trance as noise erupted from the rear of the chamber. Angered at the intrusion, she swung around in time to witness armed men swarming inside. All wore heavy suits of plate mail armour and full-faced helmets. They spread out around the door, barring the only exit.
Her eyes were drawn to the centre of their breastplates, where each had been adorned with a flaming red sword. A chill slid down Pela’s spine as she recognised the symbol.
The Knights of Alana.
“On your feet!” a Knight boomed.
Become a paid subscriber to access this entire series from the start, plus many of the other series I have written! You can even take a free 7 day trial to see if my books are for you.