The darkness was cloying. It surrounded him in its inky depths, seeming to crawl like a thousand mites all over his skin. He squirmed uncomfortably, trying desperately to get the thought out of his mind. Knees aching, his eyes searched the blackness for any sign of a shape or movement or anything but more blackness. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest, his blood rushing in his ears and the sound of his breathing seemed to echo in the dark.
“Get hold of yourself, fool,” he spoke out, startling himself with how loud his voice sounded in the emptiness. “All new Free Knights go through this very same, and I doubt many of them enjoy it.” It did seem to ease his tension a bit to hear something beyond the unsettled voices in his own head. He focused on his oath, repeating it to himself.
“I, Jarell Tyhir, do swear to uphold the truths of the Free Knights of Amarath. My life is in service to those truths, never to falter, even should my sword be broken or my shield split. My last drop of blood should be given over to service in this most ancient order.”
Ever since he was a boy on his father’s freehold, he had dreamed of the day to come. A thousand sticks he had swung at imaginary hordes in defense of Amarath, hollering the Free Knights cry. He had pictured it time and again while his feet blistered, his fingers cramped and his back ached from the innumerable toils of farming. Glory was what he had dreamed of as a boy, and here he was on the eve of the day it would finally be his.
He shifted on his knees a bit, where the mail he was clad in was digging in cruelly. Enduring a night of discomfort in the darkest black he had ever experienced was a small price to pay. New members of the order were expected to spend the night in reflection, searching their souls for the truth of themselves before taking their oaths. He had no idea what truth he was supposed to be finding inside of himself, so he repeated the oath to himself, again and again, until the words stopped making sense to his ears.
As he mouthed the words, his thoughts turned back to the first day of his squire hood to Sir Aldan Oakentree, the tough old Free Knight that had been willing to take him on, despite his family’s poor background.
“Any fool can be born a noble, but it’s someone special that works his way from a pauper,” Aldan told him numerous times. “It takes grit and balls, and sheer bullheadedness to deal with the noble prigs you’ll be subjected to. And the order needs some balls again, so don’t disappoint me, boy!”
Aldan always referred to him as boy, never Jarell. Sometimes it was farm boy, or idiot boy, but mostly just boy. Aldan was old, older than his father, and moved ponderously slow. He was short, squat and grizzled, looking as more like an oaken stump than the tree that decorated his crest. He had no heirs, nor any living relatives that Jarell had ever seen nor heard the old man speak about. The old knight had always treated him fairly, despite his gruff nature, never laying a hand on him in anger, even when he probably deserved a beating, like when he’d taken a gold coin from Aldan’s purse so he could go to the fair when it came to town. Aldan had just glared at him, and shook his head in disappointment, which was somehow worse.
He thought back to the first time he had ever met Sir Aldan Oakentree. “So, boy, what makes you think you have what it takes to be a knight?” Aldan had asked. The old knight had been travelling and had asked shelter on his father’s farm, which was gladly given. His father rarely had a chance to interact with others, since Jarell’s mother had passed from the wasting sickness, and all his time was taken in the often desperate battle to bring in enough food for them both through the cold winter. So he had welcomed the stocky knight in, and even brought down a small keg of prized darkwort ale and shared it.
“I can fight with a sword-“
Aldan guffawed loudly, interrupting him. “Have you ever even seen a real sword?”
Jarell swallowed nervously, “There’s the blade that hangs in the main room at the Red Raven in Previck! One time, Werner took it down and let me hold it!”
Aldan snorted, “Well now, seems like you must be an expert swordsman then,” He took a long pull of the darkwort and looked at Jarell over the edge of the mug. “Let me guess, you’ve done battle with various farm vermin, and mayhap a fox or two when they tried to steal your chickens.”
Jarell’s father kept silent, and stared into the fire, a sad look on his face. Jarell looked from his father back to the stocky knight, who smelled of oil and leather. “I know I could be a Free Knight, if only I had a chance.”
“Well you’ve got the attitude to be a knight, but that’s far from enough.” Aldan examined him with squinted eyes, from head to foot; long enough for Jarell to feel like one of the chickens while his father was deciding whether it was big enough to eat yet. “You’re strong, boy, but strong ain’t enough. A Free Knight needs more than muscles; he needs a compass in his heart that tells him true. Do you have that? Do you know right from wrong, and will you stick by right even if others tell you it ain’t?”
Jarell’s heart thudded in his chest as he replied, “I know what’s right, sir. My Da taught me.” Aldan turned his heavy gaze from the boy to his father. Jarell felt like a thick blanket had been lifted off him for a moment. He had never felt the weight of someone’s judgment so heavily in his whole life.
“What say you? Does he know what it means? Will he be true?”
Jarell’s father continued to stare into the fire. “Aye, he knows. He’s a stubborn spirit, and I’ve done my best for him.”
“Stubborn is good, but it may not be enough. I guess we’ll find out. You leave with me in the morning, boy. Say your goodbyes. You may not return.” With that, Aldan drained the remainder of the mug, set it on the table, and retired into the darkness, leaving Jarell in stunned silence.
“Well son, I hope that you find what you think you want,” his father said in a low husky voice. His eyes were wet, but no tears fell. “Your Ma would be proud.”
“Da-, I-, Wha-,“ he stammered, his mind whipping in circles. His father finished his mug, set it on the table and stood, his face shrouded in the flickering shadows of the low fire.
“Don’t let her down, Jarry.” With that he walked into the shadows that led to his room in the back of the house, leaving Jarrell with his mouth open and the future he never dreamed possible wide open in front of him.
His squiredom with Aldan Oakentree had been a grueling affair. If he thought that the life of a farmer was all toil and little reward, being the knight’s servant was ten times worse. He started each day before dawn, up before Aldan, readying his master’s breakfast, laying out his clothes, polishing his armor, and a thousand other little tasks that Aldan listed before he retired at night. After breaking his fast, Aldan left Jarrell to eat a meager meal of whatever was left over and then to clean up behind them both.
Then there were the lessons. He already knew his letters but reading didn’t come easy to him. Aldan gave him plenty of practice, making him ready from a few of the large tomes he kept with him on the road. “The Shepherd’s Book of Legends” was his favorite as it had stories that he knew, but he rarely got to read from that one. Mostly it was “The Eight Provinces of Man” and “The End of Kings” both historical tomes that involved a list of names that he could barely pronounce let alone remember. Aldan listened to him stammer through the closely written lines, usually sharpening his sword or examining the blade for nicks or burrs.
“Never trust another to care for your blade, boy. When it’s your life it saves you’ll appreciate it.” After what seemed like hours of struggling through the meaningless texts came Jarrell’s favorite time of the day.
“Keep your blade up, boy! If you think it’s heavy now, wait until you’re wielding the real thing in battle. Once the adrenaline wears off, you’ll feel like your armor is made of lead.” They circled each other, both wielding blunted practice swords. Aldan didn’t even bother to wear his armor or use a shield. Jarrell had both, the mail shirt hanging off his lean frame like a sail.
They fought for hours, the old knight repeatedly thrashing him, raining blows down on his shield and the practice sword. Jarrell seemed to never be able to touch him in return though, no matter how he tried.
“You’re over-extending yourself, boy! Keep leaving yourself exposed like that and your guts will be all over the battlefield.” To prove his point, Aldan smashed his practice sword into Jarrell’s stomach, dropping him to his knees and leaving him gasping.
Amidst the litany of the oath, he noticed that he was starting to be able to see. The blackness was softer now; he could see the faint outlines of the wall and the altar in front of him. He waggled his fingers in front of his face, and breathed a sigh of relief. The night of sojourn was over. His soon-to-be brothers would be on their way to retrieve him and get him ready for the ritual at the breaking dawn.
Almost as if he had summoned them, the door to the chamber swung open with a groan and Sir Kristoff of Manheim beckoned him up.
“Are you ready, Brother? The assembly awaits, dawn is on its rise.”
Nervously, he stood on quaking legs and nodded. Dread was growing in his heart like some black puddle and he wasn’t sure where it came from.
“I’m ready, Sir Kristoff.” His voice shook.
“Fear not, Brother Jarrell. It will go quickly and be over soon. And then we feast!” A huge grin split the dark, black beard that only a Tyranman could grow. His teeth were crooked and looked more like fangs, which did nothing to settle Jarrell’s nerves. Kristoff handed him the pure white surcoat that all petitioners wore to take their oaths to the Free Knights. It was unadorned until after he took his oath and then chose a sigil to put on it. When he was a boy, he often daydreamed about what he would put on the surcoat when he became a Free Knight, but the things he had dreamed about- swords and stars and dragons seemed childish now. He would wear the sigil for the rest of his days as a Free Knight, so a poor choice could haunt him for a long time. Sir Yurgen of Yoster popped into his head, his chosen sigil was that of a frog, which was uncomfortably close to the way Yurgen looked, with his buggy eyes and overlarge lips. Jarrell shuddered to himself.
He pulled the white linen over his chainmail, and breathed out slowly. Sweat was running in rivulets down his back, even though it was not overly warm in the chamber. He could feel something playing on his nerves, pulling at him deep inside, making his skin crawl and twitch. He shook himself, as if trying to rouse from a nightmare. The feeling receded a bit but didn’t disappear.
Kristoff looked at him strangely. “Are you not ready, Brother?”
Jarrell smiled painfully at him and stepped past him, out the door. A strange shadow seemed to pass over Kristoff’s face from the corner of his eye, but he when he turned to look, the Tyranman was smiling expectantly. Jarrell put it out of his mind (or tried to, it never quite left, like a crow guarding his carrion feast even after being shooed away), and walked down the corridor to the assembly chamber of the Free Knights, where his future brothers waited expectantly for him. Kristoff took up position behind him, the honor escort.
Silence greeted him upon entering the Great Chamber. The galleries were full but no sound could be heard, as every member of the Free Knights stood solemnly and still. There must have been one hundred pairs of eyes fixed on him, and they weighed more than any sack of grain on the farm or stone he pulled from the fields. The nagging dread burst to the front making his jaw clench so tightly he was sure it would never open again.
In the center of the Great Chamber stood the Stone of Caer Farnon, the last legacy of the founder of the Free Knights, King Jurius the Fair. The Stone was all that remained of his once great castle Caer Farnon, which had been the birthplace of the Knighthood and its last link to the King who had made them. As a result, it was the most consecrated ground for them, and every new Free Knight knelt before the Stone, placed his hands on it and swore his oaths. This was the only time anyone was permitted to touch the Stone, and each man but once in his lifetime. It was said the Stone bestowed some boon on each Knight, but no member of the order would discuss it an outsider.
The Stone itself was a ponderous thing, bigger than the tallest man he could think of, and twice as wide. In its gray-black surface, unreadable runes were carved, a source of constant study and wonder by the more intellectual of the order. No bit of it had been translated, as the language it was written in was lost long ago. Jarrell briefly wondered who had carved such things into the stone and why, but the thought was quickly whisked away by whatever demon was wreaking havoc on his insides.
Slow steps brought him closer and closer to the stone, and each step made his stomach roil and twist, bile rising in the back of his throat. Every nerve in his body felt stretched and thrumming, and sweat was pouring off him. As he crossed into the shadow of the Stone, he faltered, drawing mutters from the assembled Knights. Stern looks from the elders quickly brought them back to silence.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he knelt before the Stone, his hands clutching at the cool wooden rail that surrounded it. Jarrell felt sure that when he removed his hands, that there would be grooves left in the wood.
“Jarrell Tyhir, are you ready to take your oath and become one of the most ancient and true order of the Free Knights?” The booming voice of Pelek Croyto, the First Knight, head of the order, startled him badly in the quiet of the large chamber. Croyto was even larger than Brother Kristoff, his face as stern as stone. Jarrell felt gorge rushing up his throat and choked it back.
Heart racing, he replied, “Yes, First Knight.” The blackness was spreading and clawing its way through his body, making him want to shriek. Something was very wrong, Jarrell knew, but he needed to hang on until the ceremony was over. Once he had sworn his oath, he would excuse himself from the festivities and go consult one of the clerics of the order, who would no doubt give him some elixir to banish this foul sickness.
“With no reservations in your heart, place your hands on the Stone of Caer Farnon, the most holy relic of the Free Knights, and prepare to swear your oath.” Croyto’s icy blue eyes locked on his and waited expectantly. Jarrell struggled to release his grip on the rail, time slowing to a crawl as shaking hands reached towards the gray-black stone that were just a few inches away. His ears roared, his head spun, and his mouth felt more arid than the legendary Brysian deserts.
His fingertips brushed the Stone and the blackness inside him erupted. Jarrell’s head snapped back and his mouth opened in a scream. The darkness poured out of him, gushing forth like a fountain. The light drained out of the room, leaving a murky night and a cacophony of confusion that was quickly turning to horrible cries of pain. Jarrell was paralyzed and he could feel the Stone writhing under his palms. What was happening to him? Tears streamed down his face as the consciousness left him. The last thing he heard was the rising crescendo of screams and monstrous cracking sound as the world came to pieces around him.
“It is done?”
“Yes, my Lord. The boy had no idea.” The shadowy form knelt before the black obelisk, not daring to raise his eyes. “The Free Knights will not survive this night.”
“You have done well, but this is only the first step in the path to my release.” The obelisk glowed with a sickly red color.
“Your return will be paved with the screams and blood of the innocent, O Great One,” said the kneeling man. Numenos, the Midnight Lord would walk Amarath again, and would reward him handsomely.