The Eroded Knight E-Book

Indy Patterson

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

The Eroded Knight is a medieval fiction novel that introduces you to a whole new world, one that could be from our past. Karaask is filled with mysteries, forgotten injustices, ruthlessness, villains, and the only heroes are either plotting against the villains for their thrones or are one with the soil. The myths of monsters that lurk in the woods are the least of your problems. The Eroded Knight is the first introduction to the world of Karaask and to the series of The Chronicles of Karaask. And don't worry, there is more to come.

"One will seek to leave something unforgettable behind and to cheat rules and humans to fill their pocket with ill-gotten gains. Another will seek to protect their family at all costs, even if those kept from death deserve ones of righteous suffering. A similar soul will seek to carry the burden of a costly war and a birth that is akin to an unwanted whelp's. The fourth will seek to become something inhuman and cold to remember their own before they completely fade away."

Leseprobe

Indy Patterson

The Eroded Knight

The Eroded Knight is the love-child of my favorite fantasy novels and media. The biggest influence for this was Peter V. Brett’s The Warded Man, which helped me through some rough and tumultuous times in my life with his dark world of demons and humans who gave the demons a run for their money. I ask you, if you liked any part of this story, please go read The Warded Man. Brett’s works are amazing and he’s my role model for writing. Like most of my works, this is filled with references, some of them general winks while others are full-on paid respects to the various media I enjoy. I hope you enjoy reading it and look forward to the sequel, which will come out whenever I get my ghoul self to actually write all of it. BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

The Eroded Knight

"You better hope that sorrow and ill-fortune comes at you like a plague, because I will not stop till you’ve drawn your last breath, even if it means drawing mine as well."

By  Indy Patterson

Acknowledgments

The Eroded Knight is the first novel-length project I’ve ever worked on and it’s been an absolute blast to write and greatly helped my competence with making a story. I started this project in June, coming off of my first novella, Black-Powder Dreams, and dived headfirst into crafting this story. This project spawned out of a short-story that I wrote, stored away, then came back to once around summer hit. Like always, I must give my full thanks to my family and few friends for the support that they gave. As well as for suffering my occasional rants and long periods of seclusion to write this. Thanks for my editor and writing colleague, Levens, for making this project come true and not look like something a ghoul wrote at 3 AM. Thanks as well to Sarium for giving it a brief read over and the comments. Oh, right, I almost forgot one more person to give thanks to for reading this: you.

Prologue

Reinstag - Madelyn

Every day started early and busy for Madelyn. While her husband Ataom rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and slowly roused himself awake, she would begin her list of chores. She dressed in a work apron and started her list. Sweeping the house, feeding the chickens, starting a fire, setting the day up for success. Others might have dreaded or complained about the upkeep of rougher living, but she had seen twenty-eight summers and was thankful for each new day. She could’ve been born to the harsh Khavi Deserts or the frigid Famiar frontier. Even with Dolsa’s issues, she knew it could be worse.

She looked like most women of Reinstag, a working figure with hair tied up or cut short. Her skin was pale like a pearl, but she knew that once summer came it would take a light topaz hue from working in the sun too much. Her long, black, hair reached her shoulders and she knew she needed to either cut it or tie it up, but she felt like having her hair down for a little bit longer today.

Their house was small, two bedrooms and a main room with a kitchen. Madelyn woke her two children, Myrtle and Sam. Life had seemed aimless before the two had come along, but now each day was worth it. They complained and groaned but she knew that they would get up eventually. Just as she was about to start a fire, she noticed the lack of firewood, space next to the hearth absent of its normal fuel. Due to the shoddy construction of the front door, the house always needed the warm berth of a fire in the cold seasons.

Madelyn left the house and stepped out onto a fresh, vibrant day. The sun towered high in the sky, but its rays did not burn and the air hinted at the chance of rain. She said her hellos to the neighbors and sparked a little daily talk--not much happened in Reinstag, but everyone appreciated being asked about their day. She heard some rumor about the unusual quietness of the neighboring Dusk Castle. It was baseless gossip and she dismissed it as so as she delved into the boreal forest for firewood.

It didn’t take Madelyn too long to find kindling and scraps of fallen trees. Barely any time after stepping under the cool canopy cover of the forest, her arms were full of lumber. As she began to head back, she looked up to the sky and realized just how long she’d been away. What had felt like an hour seemed to be two, maybe nearing even three. She picked up her pace, cursing herself for getting trapped in the timeless allure of the woods.

As Madelyn neared the edge of the forest she caught sight of what looked like a gathering in her town square. It seemed as though the knights of the Dusk Castle had come to announce something important, as the whole town was huddled together in front of them. The knights rode on powerful mares that barely looked conquered, as some seemed to struggle with their mounts. They wore their signature dark gray armour, rumored to be products of a metallurgic marvel that did more than just produce a unique color of steel.

Half of the knights flew the symbol of the Dusk Castle, a rising sun on the horizon cut in half, one side of it gray and the other a bright yellow. The flag bearers were flanked around the group of townspeople, flags planted in the wet soil. Positioned nearest to the crowd, no more than eight feet apart, sat their captain.

Her armour still had the dark gray of her knights but with a crimson red lining. Their hair long and brown like the boreal bark. Her face was rigid and professional as she talked to the crowd. Madelyn looked at the rest of the knights, but they had their visors up. The only differences between them being height and stature. She tried to make out what the captain was saying, but she still was too far away and could only see.

The captain held up a hand to her knights and drew her sword, three feet of gleaming steel held up to the boundless blue sky. The rest of her knights followed, pulling out bows and other personal weapons. Madelyn saw her husband with her kids, watching the knights attentively. She pointed her tip to the forest as if directing a charge, then rode forward and chopped off the nearest town's person's head with one quick slice. Madelyn’s veins turned to ice as everything went to chaos.

The captain’s face turned into sadistic glee as her blade found another victim. The rest of the knights joined the slaughter as the townspeople scattered like sheep amongst wolves. Some tried running away from the blades and brutes, but they were rewarded with arrows shot into their backs. Others ran into their homes for shelter or for weapons to fight back, but their doors were barred from the outside and houses lit ablaze.

Madelyn rushed into the crowd, abandon to any harm as she searched for her family. She was caught by fleeing shoulders, but she got up and continued looking for them among the sea of frightened bodies and corpses. As she caught sight of Ataom his face temporarily switched to joy as their eyes met. Just as she was about to move towards him, a sword came rupturing out of his chest. Standing behind him, steel now to the basket-hilt in his back, stood the knight’s captain. Her face was full of joy and excitement as she ripped the brutal three feet of red steel out the father. Madelyn saw the life drain out of her husband’s face as his body collapsed among the others. The captain eagerly searched for her next kill.

Madelyn stood frozen at the sight while the townspeople screamed and ran, the thinning became more calculated than the frenzy before. She didn’t realize it had happened, but the focus towards Ataom was now gone, faded. Her mind switched to concern for her children, the guttural and natural part of her taking control. Before she could do anything, an arrow flew into her leg, dropping her onto her knees. Before she had any time to register any thought or pain, a knock on her head made everything turn black.

Madelyn woke up and thought she had died. Everything was dark and her body hurt like the abyss from a weight bearing on her. She could see the sparkle of stars but most of her vision was covered by a dark mass. The smell hit her and she immediately realized what she was under. She scrambled to get out from under the bodies, climbing over rotting corpses that stank with maggots and shit.

It felt like hours before she climbed out of the piles, reminded about the pain of the arrow in her leg with each movement. She fell onto the dirt, a mix of soil and crusted blood. The putrid smell broke through her and she threw up onto the ground. She shuddered as the night’s chill bit at her through a breeze, alone next to a pile of the corpses. Her mind returned to the thought of her children and her instincts took over.

She ripped off a piece of her apron and shoved it in her mouth, clamping hard down on the ball of cloth before ripping the arrow out of her leg. She screamed as the wound felt fresh to her body. What was a slow burn numbed by a dazed mind was now a fresh pool of pain, jabbing at her, sending bolts of lightning up her body. The bolts both simultaneously waking her up and threatening to send her to sleep. She tore up some more cloth and wrapped it around her leg, tying it to prevent the now steady flow of blood.

When she came back into focus, she began to limp from corpse to corpse, hoping with the deepest reaches of her heart to not find her children among the dead. Somewhere deep, in the depths of her mind, a part of her was beginning to think of the things she would do to the people that did this if she found her children dead. Suddenly, breaking her from her numbing trance, she noticed a flame up in the distance. Across the small forest and upon a hill, the Dusk Castle lay burning in the dark night.

Chapter One: Tephra

Waldorf - Liyla

As the sun began to dip below the treeline, Liyla wondered if the haggling was really worth it. She had only just come into the nice little town of Waldorf the previous evening and while her night of sleep was fair, the vendors of the daily market were far from it. Tents lay organized into columns in a flat field, easily accessible by a road only minutes away from the town. Her quest to purchase such a common item as a journal, was more akin to a trial that only fools would continue.

The first vendor she'd come across was an old man that had lost seemingly all sense in the world. The man wore rags that looked like robes of a forsaken priest, with the unkempt hair and beard to match. He sold a variety of scribing materials: bottles of ink as dark as oil, pens with colorful feathers, and stacks of pages ready to be filled. The man had the stones to peddle a collection of rough pages held by string with a fraying cover, for four times the cost of the average journal.

The second vendor was infinitely better at haggling, but that was the problem; she was too much of a natural haggler for her own good. The woman looked to be a wife of a merchant, clothed with fine threads and an eye for value. Liyla was surprised when she found the vendor selling the sought-after item for a reasonable price. Even with it being sold at a slightly marked up price, that was common in smaller settlements. She was ready to shake on the deal when the wife decided to offer her the prospect of another product; a small dagger that seemed to be impersonating a letter opener. Liyla declined, then the wife offered a set of turquoise jewelry. This pattern of offering and declining went on for some while until Liyla bid the woman a good day and sought another vendor.

Most seem to underestimate Liyla, and she was fine with that assumption. Her appearance wasn't outlandish or one to draw eyes. She wore a dark green cloak that covered the usual browns and greys of a ranger's garb. Her brown hair was cut short and she was taller than most her age. These two in tandem often got her mistaken as a boy, which angered her to no end. She looked the part as a ranger, slim but not skinny, well-fit but not bulky. Typical for a life on the road.

Liyla looked back at the sun, only a slight sliver of the bronze sphere remained visible. She estimated that she had little under an hour before the meeting. She had already picked up the usual provisions for her upcoming journey. Vendors knew that people needed food, so there was little haggling to be done there. She was about to forsake any further attempts until one last prospect caught her eye.

At the end of the line of vendors, lay a small tent. Four corners held up the downward curves of red silk with a sliver of a gap in front. A sign with a closed eye to the right of the entrance beckoned to her, poking at her curiosity. As she walked over to the tent, she briefly overhead the chatter of a couple picking out fruit.

"Apparently, Pelican Town and Basalt Fort were hit by a raid a while ago," The man said.

"Really? Was it the Furies?" The woman replied

"That's what I thought, but the messenger said it was different from their usual attacks. The Furies wiped everything out this time. All of the homes were burnt, everything of value was taken, and everyone was killed. It was more than just raiding, it was a massacre.

"Vicious curs."

"They seem to be getting bolder with their attacks."

The news didn't surprise Liyla, she'd heard about the attack only a few days before. The Furies were the toughest and fastest raiders to have sailed the Iron Sea. They came from Famiar, a cold and harsh continent that hovered over the northwestern tip of Dolsa. Dolsa has dealt with militants since its first settlement, but living near the coast came with the ever-lingering threat of a raid. While bandits and evils lurked in the mainland, as long as you avoided the Weald and its Living Forest, life was slightly better. She dismissed the subject from her mind as she parted the tent cover and entered the red space.

Two candles were the only sources of light in the tent, casting flickering shadows from a low table onto the red walls. Incense and fumes proliferated the air so strong Liyla thought she was suffocating, but she found herself comfortable with them after some moments. Her eyes adjusted to the low light of the tent before a quiet voice spoke.

“What do you seek, child?”

Liyla didn’t know how she hadn’t seen the woman beforehand. Sitting in front of the table, seemingly ignoring the light of the candles, was an old woman that wore the cover of darkness like a cloak.

“I’m just looking for a journal,” She said, unsure whether to leave or sit down.

“No one is ever looking for what they think they are.”

The woman’s hand came into the light and motioned to a cushion in front of the table. Her hand was covered in wrinkles, the paper-thin skin clinging to the frail bones. Liyla sat on the cushion, still uncertain if she was going to get a journal out of whatever this was. The woman remained in the cover of the shadows. Liyla now knew where the pungent perfumes were coming from.

“What is your last name, child?”

“Tephra.”

“Ah, so you’re the Tephra the spirits have been telling me about. Tell me, Liyla, what do you think you hope to accomplish with this?”

Liyla was taken aback by the sudden usage of her first name, but she quickly masked her surprise. She realized that the lady was probably just a cheap magician, looking to wow fools with parlor tricks. She would just spout something for the gullible to believe in.

“I was just hoping I could pick up a journal so I could keep some record of my life. With the recent Famiarian attacks and the bandits and all, I thought having something to leave if I die would be smart to have. Now, do you have a journal for me or not?” Liyla felt her patience draining, she didn’t want to be too late for her meeting at the tavern.

“That’s not what I mean with that question, but nonetheless. Don’t worry child, you’ll get your journal eventually. Though, I would like a different form of payment for it.”

“You’re sure I can’t just pay you in doubloons? I don’t care if it costs more, can I just get it and go?”

“Not if you want to walk out of here with a journal in your pocket! Now, all I am asking for you is to let me give you a reading and that journal can be yours for no charge. What do you say?”

Liyla pondered the offer for a minute. On one hand, getting the journal for free would almost make her search worth it, but on the other, she didn’t know if the old woman was some kind of witch or hag. While she’s never seen any actual magic in her thirty-one summers, she’d heard enough frightened recountings and disappearances that it warranted some suspicion.

“What does this reading entitle? Are you going to awkwardly touch my hands or are you going to take a lock of my hair and drop it in a stew with frog guts and eyes in it?”

The old woman barked a croak of a laugh before it turned into a coughing fit, making Liyla wait for her to regain her voice. “My child, you’ve been listening to too many ale stories. There are no such things as bog hags or witches, people are already terrible enough without dark magic. No, I could be much worse than whatever tale you could spin up. I could be a corpse trader that would drug and kill you, then sell your limbs to a cannibal, as well as use your precious hide for a new rug. No, all I need for you to do is lay your hands on the table and let me hold them. I’ve been eager to see what the spirits have been leading me.”

Liyla shrugged and set her hands onto the wooden table, outstretched and palms up. The woman grabbed her hands and said nothing. Moments passed without a word between them.

“Your life is tainted with blood and steel.”

Liyla flinched. The usage of her name surprised her but she was becoming more unnerved at the crone’s ramblings.

“Can I just get my journal and go?”

“Your past will haunt you and lead to your doom,” The crone’s grip became tighter on Liyla’s hand, her heart beating faster.

“Now you’re just wasting my time,” She tried to pull away but the crone’s grip was surprisingly strong.

“I now know why the spirits told me about you. How ironic.”

Liyla rushed out the tent barely a minute later, a brown journal clutched in her right hand. She checked the bottom of her shoes before setting off away from the vendors. The sun now spread out on the horizon, its rays cascading across the sky in soft blues and pinks.

Chapter Two: Almeric

Waldorf - Foulk

Foulk didn’t waste any time getting to the tavern. He’d arrived around midday to the town of Waldorf, the sun still high in the sky and the town bustling with activity. He seemed to draw eyes everywhere he went, which he didn’t help with his appearance. He was a rugged man that wasn’t pleasant to look at, not a giant, only slightly bigger than most. Tough and scarred skin covered his body, a face of silver hair and cuts looking like it had taken a tumble off the side of a cliff.

Foulk wore chainmail over a brown shirt, showing no hindrance to its weight. At the hip he wore relics from his past: medals of valor, pinned coats of arms, and the occasional tooth, finger, or ear tied together with string. On his right hand he wore a full iron gauntlet, the metal dark gray ribbed with overlapping scales like chitin. Each forearm wore metal bracers held by leather strings, the left having a steel buckler. On his back, he shouldered a kite shield of green and red littered with dents and marks.

After getting directions from a helpful farmhand, Foulk found the Dawntreader Inn and Tavern. It was the biggest building in the town, a compact combination of stone and wood. He did notice the absence of a church, but that was becoming more common with each day. The building had little decoration besides a sign hanging at the front with its title.

On the inside, it had slightly more character. A landscape painting here, a stuffed head of some poor animal there, but nothing that made it stand out from the other countless Dolsian taverns. Foulk walked past the barkeep and searched for any exits. The barkeep looked content with a slow start to her day, cleaning mugs and bowls when he approached.

“How much for a room tonight?” Foulk asked.

The barkeep set down her rag and mug and looked at him, eyeing him from head to toe with a raised eyebrow. People always expected a deeper, gruffer voice from him due to his appearance.

“It’s fifteen doubloons a night. Twenty with a meal provided each day from our kitchen,” She said.

Foulk grabbed a coin purse from his hip and counted out twenty before setting them onto the lacquered wood bar. She took the coins and handed him a key with a crudely carved wooden number four on the chain.

“If I can get that meal once I drop my stuff off in my room, I would greatly appreciate it,“ He said, leaving the barkeep to her routine and setting off into a hallway next to the kitchen door.

Foulk found his room, barren besides a bed and table. He sat on the bed, creaking and complaining as he shouldered off all of his gear. Hidden in the guige strap of his kite shield lay an obsidian flail that he always hated to use, but more often than not it drew blood and raked skin.

Once all of his gear was arranged neatly by his bed, Foulk suddenly felt the previous week hit him, draining him of all his energy. Life on the road wasn’t uncommon to him, but he wasn’t getting younger by the day. He put his hands behind his head and laid back onto the bed, the bed frame squeaking in disapproval of the act. He felt his eyelids drop and tried to stop them but he gave in to the feeling and fell into a deep slumber.

Foulk was only twelve when he first watched someone die. His dream shifted and swirled, memories of the day reared its ugly head once again. He remembered every detail and sensation of it vividly, the ripping of flesh, the crack of bones, the screams of his sister. His mind pleaded with him to wake up, but the dream didn’t stop.

He relived the moment, seeing each wolf take a piece of his sister, pulling at limbs till they popped off. He had to force himself to clamp his hand down onto his mouth, to prevent himself from throwing up, to prevent himself from becoming their next meal. He stifled the upwelling of vomit and removed his hand from his mouth, the bile burning at his throat. He felt his grip tighten like a coiled snake around the handle of a small dagger, perfect for cutting herbs and leaf but he was no fighter. Any attempts would lead to him adding to their feast. His left hand dripped with blood as his nails cut into his palm. The pounding of his heart rising and rising with each passing moment. Just as each wolf began to walk away from their meal, one wolf remained. As it finished licking up the clumps of viscera scattered on the forest floor, it suddenly turned its head towards Foulk, staring at him for a long moment. Its predatory eyes bore into him before the dream broke.

Foulk woke with a jerk, a thick layer of sweat coating his face. He immediately looked at his left hand, still feeling the slick coat of warm blood, but none was there. He managed to calm down and convince himself that there was no blood on his hand after some while. He opened his door and saw his meal sitting cold at the base of the door. It was a traditional shepherd’s pie, a mash of vegetables and pork that filled a hole and was good even cold. He took the pie and the wrapped utensils and sat at one of the tables in the tavern towards the corner of the room.

There was the familiar amber glow of sunset through the windows, only a few others attended the tavern with him. He picked out the day drinkers and those just here for the gossip of the town, happy to see they were just that. He’d always had trouble covering up his paranoia, but a healthy skepticism had kept his hide intact for his thirty-four winters. Thankfully it was easier in a tavern, where everyone was in their little bubble of their own.