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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“On your feet!” The Knight’s voice echoed strangely from behind his visor, giving it a metallic quality, as though the man within was not entirely human.
Crouched on her knees, Pela found herself frozen, unable to so much as cry out as the Knights advanced. The summer solstice was only a few weeks away and most of the congregation had gathered to begin preparations for the sacred day of the Goddess Antonia. Pela was near the back of the chamber, furthest from the Knights, but those at the front scrambled over one another in their desperation to escape the shining blades. With over forty meditators present, it was chaos.
Pela’s heart hammered hard in her chest as her mind raced, struggling to understand where the Knights had come from. The nearest Castle was in Townirwin, a journey of many days by ship, and a week over land. How had they come upon the temple so suddenly? And what were they here for?
Death.
She shuddered. No, those were just rumours. Otherwise, the Plorsean King would have outlawed the Order of Alana, regardless of who they worshipped.
But why then were they here, with naked steel in hand? What other purpose but murder would have brought them?
“Silence!” the Knight roared over the screaming, “By order of the Crown!”
The command went unheeded. With a start, Pela realised she was the only one still on her knees. The crowd was pushing towards the altar, putting her at risk of being trampled. She had just scrambled to her feet when a vice-like hand gripped her by the wrist.
“Pela!” her mother hissed, suddenly beside her.
Kryssa pulled her towards the rear of the chamber. Stumbling after her mother, Pela glanced back as another scream came from behind them, and tripped over a tear in the carpet.
“Quickly!” her mother snapped, dragging her bodily behind the altar.
“There’s no way out,” Pela moaned.
“There is,” Kryssa replied.
Pela shook her head, knowing her mother was wrong. Behind the altar they were hidden from the Knights, but there was nowhere left to go. The rear wall was made of brick and held up by stone pillars.
Still Pela’s mother pulled at her arm, and she relented, allowing Kryssa to pull her into the corner where a pillar had fallen against the wall.
“Quickly, you must find your uncle!” Kryssa gasped, pushing Pela towards the broken pillar. She said something else, but her words were drowned out by the screaming.
“How?” Pela yelled, anger lending her strength. Her mother never explained, only told.
A gurgling cry rattled from the walls. Pela looked back and saw an older villager stumbling away from the Knights. Blood spurted from his throat and he went down clutching the wound with both hands.
Pela stared, unable to tear her eyes away. She had never seen someone die before; let alone someone she knew. It was the old man who had greeted her at the temple door. She remembered him now—it was Fervil, the village baker. He had given her a sticky cream bun once, when she was young, as a reward for safely delivering some bread to her grandmother.
Now his lifeblood was soaking into the dusty carpet of the ruined temple, and Pela could not begin to understand why.
“Pela!” Kryssa shrieked, shaking her. With an effort of will Pela focused on her mother’s face. “Inside!”
“Inside what?” Pela gasped. Nothing made sense anymore.
Her mother pointed at the wall beneath the pillar, and finally she saw. Where the pillar had come to rest, the wall had cracked and crumbled away. Higher up, the break was barely noticeable, but at the base it widened enough that Pela might be able to fit.
“Go!” Kryssa moaned, her eyes flicking toward the Knights. Most of the congregation had already been subdued, and the few remaining villagers were pressed against the altar. They had only seconds before the Knights saw them.
“What about you?” Pela asked.
“Don’t worry about me,” her mother hissed. “Get out. Take the back trails down the mountain. Find your uncle!”
Pela swallowed, heart suddenly in her throat, but Kryssa didn’t give her an opportunity to argue. She gripped Pela by the shoulders and pushed her into the crack. The pressure did not relent until Pela crawled into the darkness beyond the candle-lit hall. Then an angry voice shouted out and her mother’s hands vanished.
Blood thundering in her ears, Pela continued forward. She glanced back only once, in time to see a pair of thick leather boots appear alongside her mother’s moccasins, then she was through the other side and on her feet, racing through the shadows of the temple.
In her panic, Pela didn’t think about where she ran, only that she needed to escape the men who had taken her mother. Then a stray pile of rubble caught her foot and she went crashing to the ground. Pain flared as her elbow struck the ground and she cursed, the sound shockingly loud in the dark corridors.
Reason came rushing back and Pela clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out again. The hackles on the back of her neck rose as a voice called from somewhere ahead, followed by the heavy thump of leather boots.
They’re coming!
Struggling to calm her racing heart, Pela scrambled to her feet and went back the way she’d come. Her eyes strained against the dark, trying to place where she was. She needed somewhere to hide, or the Knights would surely find her.
Finally, she recognised a mosaic of the Three Gods. Half of it was gone—only the face of Darius, the God of Light, remained complete—but she now knew where she was. She scanned her memories, thinking back to long ago when she had explored the temple as a youth. There were a thousand hiding places for a child, but few for a girl almost fully grown.
Only one was near, though it would test her courage. She turned left, then right, and ducked into a narrow doorway. A long rectangular room stretched away from her, a massive fireplace taking up most of the far wall. Once it had been a kitchen, with a stove large enough to feed a hundred meditators, but now all that remained of the stove was a rusted ruin in the empty fireplace.
Stepping over the twisted iron, Pela moved into cavernous space beyond and looked up. The chimney was so long it could have fit two of her lying down, but it was narrow. If she was careful, she could wedge herself in place above the level of the room, out of sight.
If she could climb that high.
Don’t think—do!
It was something her grandmother used to say, and Pela drew inspiration from the words now. Taking care to be quiet, she jammed her hands into the cracks left between the bricks by the crumbling mortar and tried to haul herself up.
Pain flared in her hand as it slipped free. Pela gasped as she slammed into the ground. A voiced echoed from the corridor, closer now.
Covered in black ash, Pela scrambled up and tried again. This time a clump of soot fell in her face, but she managed to wedge her feet into a crack and hold herself in place. She sucked in a breath, and soot rushed up her nose.
Her eyes watered as a sneeze built, until she could hold it no longer. Quickly she released a hand hold and pinched her nose. She was just in time, and only the tiniest of squeaks came out.
Even so, she held her breath, listening for the telltale crunch of boots on rubble. Suspended just out of sight of the room below, her arms shook…but she dared not move, lest she give herself away. A minute ticked by, then another, until finally she was convinced the Knight had gone another way.
Letting out a breath, Pela shifted so her feet were beneath her, and started to climb. She did not look down, though in the darkness she could not have told how high she was. The chimney had once extended far above the temple’s roof, but age had toppled it along with the three spires. Light streamed through the narrow gap a dozen feet above, showing her the way, and there were no more accidents.
Clambering onto the rooftop, Pela crouched amongst the rubble of the ruined chimney and squinted against the sudden brightness. The roof had been painted white and reflected the sun, though thankfully the fallen spires covered much of it. She searched for sign of the Knights, but there was no one in sight.
A shout carried to her on the ocean breeze, sending a tingle of premonition down her spine. Her heart began to race again. Crouching low, she crept across the broken stone, silent as a cat. She had to skirt several places where fallen rock had caved in the temple roof. Long minutes passed before she reached the front of the temple. Voices carried up from below. Craning her head, she peeked down at the speakers.
Dust billowed up from the two dozen men and horses gathered below, and she quickly ducked back out of sight. Rolling on her back, she gasped, struggling to control her panic. If they had seen her…
Her blood went cold. Had they seen her? Even now they might be drawing their swords and scrambling up the lead drainage pipes…
Pela scrunched her eyes closed and sucked in a breath.
Listen.
Slowly she exhaled, focusing on the action and not the fear. The wind whistled through the nooks and crannies of the ruin. She strained her ears, seeking out sounds of pursuit. Voices rose from below, raised in anger but directed elsewhere, not at the hidden watcher on the roof.
Her heartbeat slowed. They had not seen her.
Pela had only caught a glimpse of what was going on, but it was all she’d needed. The villagers had their hands bound behind their backs and were roped together in a line. She’d had no time to count but it looked like everyone inside had been subdued. Now the Knights were mounting up in preparation to depart.
What do I do? Pela shrieked in the silence of her mind.
Her mother must be below, but there was no way to reach her, no way to free her from the armoured Knights and their terrible greatswords. At the thought, she saw again the image of Fervil choking on his own blood, his fingers unable to stem the terrible bleeding…
Stop it.
Pela forced herself to breathe, pushing back the onset of panic. She couldn’t afford that luxury. Kryssa was in trouble and she was the only one who knew!
“Ready men?” A voice carried up to her. “Let’s ride!”
The sharp crack of a dozen whips followed as the Knights set their horses on the narrow trail. Several villagers cried out, but from where Pela lay, she could not see who or why. Angry curses and more cracks followed, and a woman wailed. Pela prayed to the Three Gods it was not her mother. Finally, the clip-clop of hooves on stone faded away.
Cautiously, Pela lifted her head and watched the Knights move off, their captives strung out between them. She waited several minutes before pulling herself up, wanting to be sure no one had remained to keep watch. A dust cloud clung to the mountainside where the Knights rode, their captives in tow. They were already a quarter of the way down the mountainside. Beyond, the deep blue waters of the harbour waited.
Her heart fluttered as she thought of the ship waiting there. That must be how they intended to escape, though what they intended for the prisoners…
Pela tore her thoughts away from torture and death. High tide was still an hour away; the ship would not depart until the currents turned. The Knights couldn’t move quickly with the prisoners in tow. If Pela ran, she might beat them to Skystead. Balling her hands into fists, she focused on her mother’s last words:
Find your uncle!
Rivulets of sweat trickled down Ikar’s forehead as the sun beat down on the mountain trail. Outside the refuge of the old temple, there was no escaping it, and the heavy armour made the heat all the worse. He fought the temptation to remove his visor, calling on his ancestors for strength.
He had not lied to Merak, it was well known his family had descended from Alan the Great, who had died over a century ago in the war of the Gods. But of the man’s children, Ikar was descended from the lesser line, and his family had done little of note since. Nothing but…
Ikar shook his head, determined to leave the past in the past. His family might have once sinned, but he had been born on the day the Gods fell, and had never known any power but his own strength. He had been raised in Lonia, the poorest of the Three Nations, though their king had designs to change that fate. Ikar had served as the man’s bodyguard for a time, and later for his daughter, only departing their household a year ago, when his faith had called for his service.
And so he had joined the Knights of Alana, and been sent as a missionary into Plorsea. The Order was still young here, its growth hindered by antagonism towards Lonia, where the cult had been born. Though few still worshiped the False Gods, they had been equally reluctant to embrace the Saviour. Townirwin, where he had settled, was one of the few towns to boast a Castle—the fortresses of the Order.
Anger stirred in Ikar’s chest as he inspected the villagers they had captured. They stumbled along the path, hands bound, barely able to keep upright. His fellow Knights rode alongside them, brandishing their riding crops at those who slowed the progression. The sight made him sick. Such weak, selfish creatures they were, to beg the False Gods to save them.
Did they not realise their prayers endangered all the Three Nations? That their belief fed strength back to the False Gods, so that they might one day threaten the world once more? The Order would not allow it, though the cowardly King of Plorsea had forbidden interference.
Ikar snorted. As far as he was concerned, Braidon was a weak and ineffective king, though the man’s tolerance for the False Gods and their followers bordered on outright blasphemy. It still surprised Ikar that Lonia had made a pact with such a man—had even offered him their princess’s hand in marriage in order to buy peace.
Sucking in a stifling breath, Ikar forced his thoughts from politics. He tried to judge their progress down the mountainside, but the town was still far below and several of the prisoners were already flagging. He cursed. They needed to be away on the high tide, before the townsfolk might learn of their presence and attempted a rescue. He had no doubt his two dozen Knights could fend them off, but there had already been enough bloodshed.
Ahead, a young boy stumbled on the uneven ground and fell. Ikar cursed and rode closer. The boy struggled to right himself with his hands tied behind his back, but only succeeded in toppling himself face-first into the ground. When he saw the Knight looming overhead, he screamed.
“Stupid boy!” Ikar growled, lifting his crop.
“Stop!” Another prisoner, a woman, darted between Ikar and the boy.
“Get out of my way, woman,” Ikar snapped. He flicked the crop at her, but she leaned back, and the blow missed by a hair’s breadth.
The woman sneered. “Such a brave man,” she said, her voice rich with sarcasm, “that you must beat women and children to show your power.”
Angered, Ikar prepared to strike the woman down. She did not shrink away. Her silver eyes flashed in the midday sun as she watched him. There was not an inch of give in those eyes, and Ikar hesitated, then lowered his crop.
“Get him up,” he grunted.
With her own hands still bound, the woman could do little to help the boy, but eventually she got him on his feet. Taking him under her wing, she moved off down the track without a backwards glance at Ikar.
He edged his horse after her, equal parts disturbed and fascinated. The other villagers had shown little defiance since the bloodshed in the temple. The baker’s death had robbed the rest of their courage, and now the rest marched wilfully to their fate.
“Ikar.”
Ikar looked around as Merak called his name and found the Elder riding several horses back. He had removed his helmet once more, but sweat still beaded his forehead, drenching the greying hair that hung in tangles around his face. Dragging on his reins, Ikar waited for Merak to catch him before setting off again.
“What was that, with the woman?” Merak questioned.
Ikar shrugged. “She was right. They might be blasphemers and traitors, but we should not sink to their level. We are Knights of Alana; we must uphold our own honour.”
“Ay,” Merak mused, “but I do not like how these peasants defy us. It should not have taken a death to subdue such creatures.”
“Hard country, the mountains,” Ikar replied. “In Lonia, they breed strong warriors.”
“Even so, it would serve them well to be reminded of their place. I will take five to the town square and conduct a cleansing. Shall I include the witch who challenged you?”
Ikar looked ahead to where the woman walked alongside the boy, turning over the man’s offer in his mind. It would be just, to repay her earlier defiance. Yet their orders were to return with as many prisoners as possible, for the Elders needed candidates for their Great Sacrifice.
He shook his head. “No,” he replied. “She is strong, we may need her for the solstice.”
Merak laughed. “You are right, brother.” He offered a grim smile. “I will take the weak and cowardly. They will not be needed.”
Ikar shuddered as the Elder moved away. There was something about Merak that set his teeth on edge, a cruelty that went beyond the bounds of what was needed to preserve the natural order. Watching the man inspect the prisoners, Ikar was reminded of a wolf circling its prey.
As they neared the town, Merak cut five prisoners from the line, all men. “Make for the ship and load the prisoners,” the Elder ordered. “I will join you within the hour. If I am postponed, do not wait. The candidates must be brought before the Order without delay.”
With that, Merak moved off, taking five Knights along with the prisoners. Ikar waited until they disappeared down the broad avenue through the centre of town before shaking himself into action.
“Let’s go!” he bellowed.
The prisoners stood staring after Merak. They had not been told what the Elder intended, but from their defeated looks, several had guessed. Ikar scanned their ranks, catching the eyes of the woman from earlier staring back at him. Her gaze was strangely unnerving, and he quickly looked away.
“I said get moving!” he screamed.
Several of his Knights brandished their crops, and the group moved off, making for the port.
Devon sat back on the slate roof and let out a long breath. Taking a rag from his belt, he wiped the sweat from his face. The familiar ache had begun in the centre of his back, and his knee had been troubling him for close to an hour now. He would need to stop soon, but he was determined to continue for as long as possible. Already the longest day of the year was just weeks away, and he was not yet half finished with the repairs.
He should have started sooner, but as always, he had put the needs of the village first, had dedicated too much time to other projects. Now he would need to rush to get the holes in his own villa fixed before the autumn rains arrived.
Selina would have shaken her head and cursed him for a fool. The thought of his former business partner brought a smile to Devon’s face. Her loss still hurt, though Selina had been so old at the end she could barely make it up the steps to the temple.
A shiver went through him at the thought. How long before the same weakness claimed him? He already felt its approach. Once, he would have finished retiling his entire roof in the span of a week; now he would need to enlist help if he was to avoid being bogged down in the winter.
Devon cursed and straightened. He wasn’t dead yet, and he’d be damned if he allowed despair to rule him. He might be approaching fifty-five, but he was still the strongest man in the village. Just last month he’d carried the Lifting Stone further than any other challenger, and he was yet to meet the man who could best him in battle.
That thought brought another pang of sadness. Fifteen long years had passed since his last campaign. It had ended in such disaster that even now he regretted accepting the call. At the time, Selina had railed against him, had begged him not to go, but Devon had left anyway, marching to the aid of his old friend, Braidon.
How he wished he could take that decision back. He had lost everything because of it: friends and family and his own honour. But Braidon had been desperate—and if Devon was honest, he had longed to experience the thrill of battle one last time.
But with the wisdom of age, Devon could see now what he had never accepted as a young man. He did not have the courage to live as an ordinary man, to toil day in and day out to add something to the world. Selina had recognised it in him, when they had stood on the plains of Trola and fought the Tsar and his armies. But her advice had helped him little then, and it was too late to admit it now.
Sitting back on the roof, Devon found himself wondering after the king. He had not heard from Braidon for many years now. He supposed with the peace treaty signed between Lonia and Plorsea, Braidon had little need for old warriors.
Devon shook himself from his reverie and reached for his hammer. If he pressed on for another hour, he might just keep to schedule. If the rains came late…
“Uncle!”
Devon started as a scream came from below. Sitting up, he saw a young girl race into his courtyard. Tangled platinum hair bounced around her face as she stumbled to a stop, her hazel-green eyes whipping about in search of somebody. She had not noticed him sitting on the roof.
A broad grin stretched Devon’s cheeks as he recognised his niece. Pela had taken to calling him “Uncle” when she was just a child, though they had no direct relation. If anything, he was more like her grandfather. Years ago, when he and Selina had run the Firestone Tavern in Ardath, the old woman had adopted an urchin from the streets. He recalled with a mixture of regret and fondness the night she’d returned with Kryssa, and changed their lives forever.
But Kryssa had not spoken to Devon since Selina’s death, nor allowed her daughter, Pela, to visit him. He could hardly blame her, after his failure…but the absence had hurt. Seeing Pela now brought a smile to his face, and sitting up, he waved a hand.
“Morning, missy. Where have you been hiding?” he shouted down.
“Temple…Knights…Mum…Uncle!” Pela gasped, her voice echoing incoherently from the walls of the courtyard.
Devon frowned. Her words made little sense, but there was no mistaking her urgency. A spark of worry lit in his stomach, and he levered himself up. He strode across the roof, taking care to step lightly on the slate tiles, and clambered down the ladder to join her in the courtyard.
“What’s that, missy?” he asked when he was on the ground.
Still struggling to catch her breath, Pela straightened. “They have Mum!”
“What?” Devon asked, his chest tightening. “Who?”
“They have her—the Knights of Alana!”
“Slow down, missy,” Devon said, though there was a roaring in his ears now.
Pela’s words made no sense. Skystead did not have any of the cult’s ridiculous Castles, and was about as remote as a village could get in Plorsea. There was nothing to bring them here. And they wouldn’t want anything with Kryssa, not unless…
“It’s true!” Pela panted. “We were at Temple—”
“What?” Devon boomed, worry giving way to anger. “I told your mother to stop with that nonsense years ago. What was she thinking?”
Pela paled in the face of his rage. Her mouth hung open, but no more words came out. Devon groaned, running a hand through his thinning hair.
“When did this happen?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm. Pela was…sixteen? A woman grown, but inexperienced in the world and its dangers. He tried to reassure her: “Don’t worry, we’ll get this sorted.”
“They killed Fervil!”
Devon knelt and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Listen to me, Pela,” he said, face to face with the girl now. “I promise you; we’re going to get your mother back. Okay?”
Pela nodded, her head bobbing up and down like it was on a chain. Her eyes were still wild, but at Devon’s words she sucked in a great, shuddering breath, and seemed to calm a little.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Good,” Devon rumbled. “Now, when did this happen, and where have they taken Kryssa?”
“Half an hour ago,” Pela replied. There was still a quiver to her voice, but the panic was fading. “I think they’re heading for a ship at the port. High tide is soon!”
“How did you get away?”
“Mum sent me through a crack in the wall. She said to find you. We have to help her!”
“We will,” Devon said, rising. “Did you see how many there were?”
The girl hesitated before replying, “A dozen, maybe two dozen.”
Devon cursed inwardly. Even in his prime, a dozen would have been too many for him. The ache in his back seemed to redouble, dragging on his confidence. Slowed by age and old injuries, he wouldn’t stand a chance against those odds.
But neither could he simply allow them to leave with Kryssa. Whatever they were here for, whatever their intentions for the prisoners, he doubted they were good. He had never liked the Order of Alana, though he had known the woman herself a long time ago. Perhaps that was why, for the Order and its Knights resembled little of what Alana had stood for at the end.
But despite his reservations, the cult had flourished over the last thirty years, finding fertile soil in a world suddenly without magic. The God’s sudden absence had left a power void in the Three Nations, and the Order had taken full advantage.
“Uncle!” Pela shrieked, dragging him back to the present. There were tears in her eyes and she looked ready to crumble. “What are we going to do?”
Devon forced a smile. Striding across the courtyard, he hefted the sledgehammer he’d been using to break the old roof tiles, then looked at Pela.
“Let’s go.”
Caledan let out a groan as he lowered himself onto the tavern bench. The four days at sea had been the longest of his life, made all the worse by the sudden squall that had struck yesterday. The pounding rain would have been a relief after the relentless sun, if not for the surging waves that had made his already knotted belly convulse until he was throwing up bile.
Now he could not wait to wash away the taste of salt and vomit. Sucking down a long draught of his ale, he wondered again what had possessed him to make such a trip. By all logic, he should never have accepted the ship captain’s commission. Work might have been scarce for a sellsword in recent years, but there was always need for men of Caledan’s calibre and he’d had no need for the coin.
But something in the captain’s tale had awoken his curiosity. The man had claimed a ship full of Baronians had almost set upon his ship on the journey from Lon. Baronians were tribes of nomads who roamed the Three Nations, preying on whomever was unlucky enough to fall within their power. But their presence alone had not been enough to pique Caledan’s interest. It was the Captain’s claim of magic, of a ship with an unnatural ability to sail against the wind, that had captured Caledan’s imagination.
He still wasn’t sure of the story’s truth, but it had been enough to buy Caledan’s protection for a few days. Such a power might have advanced his own goals. But the Baronian vessel had never appeared, though with Caledan brought down by seasickness, that might have been for the best.
They had made port in Skystead last night and Caledan had promptly retired his commission, telling the captain he’d rather walk back to Townirwin than set foot on the Red Seagull again. The man had been enraged, but Caledan had little sympathy for him.
After all, he knew better than most that life was full of disappointments.
The captain must have been sailing under lucky stars though, for two Knights of Alana had ridden up before Caledan had even left the port and requested passage.
Seated at a table in front of the tavern, Caledan glimpsed another group of Knights riding past. The sight brought a frown to his face, and he wondered whether a new Castle had been opened in the sleepy village. He doubted it; Skystead was a long way from anywhere that mattered.
The tavern opened out onto the northern edge of the town square. From his vantage point, Caledan could see the quiet stalls of the bazaar directly opposite. A slate roof protected its occupants from the elements, but with the sun approaching its midday position, most of the stalls were already packing up for the day. On the eastern side of the plaza was the town hall, its front lined with granite pillars. Gargoyles stretched out from its roof, overhanging the square. The other buildings bordering the plaza were mostly eating houses and taverns, already beginning to fill with noon approaching.
Caledan expected the Knights to turn at the bazaar and head for the docks, but instead they cantered up to the town hall and all but one dismounted. He noticed now that only five of the party were Knights. The rest were plain-clothed men, their hands bound behind their backs. They stumbled to a stop behind the Knights, eyes fixed to the ground.
Sipping his ale, Caledan watched in fascination as a Knight took rope from his saddlebags and flung it over one of the gargoyles. A crowd began to gather as the Knight tied a noose.
“What’s going on here?” an onlooker shouted.
The Knights ignored the question, but one of the prisoners looked up. Seeming to notice the crowd for the first time, he came alive. “Help us!” he shouted, tugging at his bindings. “They attacked—”
He broke off as a Knight bounded forward and slammed a mailed fist into his head. The man went down with a thump, unable to break his fall with his hands bound. When he tried to recover, the Knight drove a boot into his stomach. The rattle of iron striking flesh whispered through the square, silencing the crowd.
Arms resting against his table, Caledan said nothing. Several of the townsfolk had not lost their courage though, and the whispers soon began again.
“That’s Zenner…who are you…where…what right…?”
The crowd had recognised the prisoners as their own people. But before they could gather their courage, the Knight who remained mounted edged his horse forward. Unlike the others, he did not wear a helmet, and his cape was dark red, while the rest wore white. He drew his sword and waved it at the crowd.
“Back!” The man’s voice boomed across the square. His horse reared, its cry echoing its master’s. “Or suffer the wrath of Alana!”
As one, the villagers retreated, though the agitated whispers did not cease.
Sword still in hand, the man turned his horse on the spot. “My name is Merak, Elder of the Townirwin Castle! We come before you today in the name of the Saviour, to cleanse from these lands those who would undo her saintly work.”
Amidst the villagers, a man stepped forward in defiance of the Elder. “Why are these men bound? What do they stand accused of?”
“They were found in the ruins above your town, sending their blessings to the False Gods!” Merak bellowed.
“Ay, and what of it?” The villager didn’t back down. “Skystead does not belong to your Order. In whose name do you deny these men their freedom?”
“In the name of the Crown!” Merak snapped, his irritation showing. He pointed his blade at the villager. “Now get back, or you will suffer the same fate as these sorry blasphemers.”
“Be damned—”
Merak’s sword flashed down before the man could finish, severing his throat. Blood sprayed across the dusty cobbles. Caledan watched with detached curiosity as the villager staggered back, clutching his throat in a desperate attempt to stem the bleeding. He’d seen many such wounds in his lifetime; the man was already dead. Within seconds the villager crumpled to the ground and lay still.
The crowd drew back, their anger turning to sudden fear. Silence fell across the plaza as they stared at the Elder. Blood still dripped from Merak’s blade. He sneered down at them.
“Blasphemers must be cleansed from our lands, lest the False Gods return and bind us once more with their magic.”
Caledan watched on, bemused by the performance. There were over a hundred villagers in the plaza now, against the Elder and his five Knights, but not one lifted a hand as the killer turned his horse towards the prisoners. He dropped a hand to his sword hilt. He was tempted to interfere, if for no other reason than to irk the Elder’s arrogance.
But there was no profit to be made upsetting the Order of Alana. Caledan had learned to trust his instincts long ago; he recognised a rising power when he saw one. Just like Lonia before it, the cult would grow until it touched every aspect of Plorsea’s governance. If the Elder was to be believed, they already had the ear of the crown.
Not that corrupting King Braidon would have been difficult.
Caledan waved for a server to bring him another pint of ale. But the man had been distracted by the altercation and had abandoned his post. Swearing, Caledan returned his attention to the Knights. At least there was entertainment, even if his drink was empty.
Merak had dismounted now. He stood before the crowd, arms raised. “Bring the first to be cleansed!”
Two of his men grabbed a prisoner and dragged him forward until he stood before the dangling rope. At a gesture from their leader, the Knights looped the noose around the captive’s neck. The man cried out as the fibres tightened around his throat and tried to fight back, but his armoured assailants held him tight. After a moment he slumped in their grip, defeated.
“Please…don’t do this…stop!” The villagers were growing restless again.
“Silence!” Merak’s voice boomed out. “Darkness has infected your town, but we have come to deliver you! We bring the blessings of Alana.”
No one spoke as the Elder approached the prisoner in the noose.
“What is your name, traitor?”
“Ze…Zenner.”
“Zenner, you stand accused of blasphemy against the Saviour, and worship of the False Gods. How do you plead?”
The man’s mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t seem to find the words. Caledan felt for him. There were no laws outlawing belief in the Three Gods, though Caledan knew that in Lonia their worshipers were now hunted. Such foulness had not reached Plorsea though, certainly not a small town like Skystead. At least, not until now.
“Will you repent, blasphemer, and surrender yourself to the mercy of Alana?”
“I…I…please?”
The man still seemed to think he could reason with his captor, but Caledan recognised the eyes of a fanatic. It was no surprise; Elders were generally zealots of the highest order.
“No?” Merak asked. When the man still did not answer, he nodded to his followers.
The two Knights took hold of the rope. The prisoner’s eyes widened and he cried out, “Wait—”
Before he could say more, the noose snapped tight around his throat and he was dragged into the air. He kicked out wildly as the rope swayed, but he could find no purchase in the empty air, no relief from the fiery grasp of the noose. The villagers screamed, but with their comrade lying dead on the ground before them, none were bold enough to intervene.
Caledan watched on, slightly bored by the lack of a fight. He had expected at least a few townsfolk to try and save the man. Instead, they stood and did nothing as the prisoner’s eyes rolled back into his skull and his struggles grew feebler.
Finally, the man stilled, and Merak nodded for the Knights to cut him down. As though choosing a chicken at the market, the Elder moved down the line of prisoners and stopped in front of a white-haired man.
“You, what is your name?”
The old man stared calmly back at his accuser. Unlike the others, there was no fear in his eyes. He smiled at the question.
“May the Three Gods bless you, brother.”
“Blasphemy!” Merak screamed. Face flushed, he raised his blade.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sonny.”
The Elder froze as a voice boomed across the square. Frowning, he turned and sought out the speaker. Caledan did the same, scanning the crowd before settling on a figure standing in the shadows of an alley. A whisper went through the plaza as he stepped into the sunlight. Age lined the man’s face and his beard was grey, but he strode towards the Knights as though he owned the world. He carried a sledgehammer in one massive fist.
“Who’s this now?” Caledan mused.
“That’s Devon,” the tavern’s server answered, appearing finally with a fresh jug of ale. “They say he fought for the king, back in his day.”
“Interesting.” Caledan nodded his thanks and handed over a shilling for the drink.
Caledan studied the giant as he advanced on the Knights. Could it be true? Devon was a name carved into the legends of the Three Nations. The Trolans knew him as the “Butcher of Kalgan,” the Lonians as the “Consort of Alana,” while most Plorseans were divided between “King Killer” and “Liberator.” All agreed he’d played a part in the fall of the Empire so many decades ago.
But surely this couldn’t be the same man?
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