“Nothing,” the creature repeated. “You can do nothing about it. Nothing, if you want your companions, your friends, to live.”
“What… what exactly do you want from me?”
The lips of the lizard-image parted, revealing glowing yellow teeth and a snakelike tongue that slowly unrolled and slithered toward Dhamon.
“One memory” the wight said. “That is all I require. I feed on the memories of the living. I’ll take only one from you. This time.” The tongue snaked around Dhamon’s neck and tugged him closer. Wispy fingers reached up and caressed Dhamon’s temples. “Just one, then you and your companions may leave this town. But if our paths again cross, I’ll take another memory. And another. Yet never all of them.”
For a few moments more, Dhamon resisted.
“Death for your friends,” the wight reminded. “Or one memory.”
Dhamon took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and the creature entered his mind.
Chapter Five
Stolen Youth
One hundred and twelve Knights were camped in a field of sage grass and wildflowers between the town of Hartford and the Vingaard River. Dhamon knew how many Knights there were exactly because he’d counted them three times. He lay on his stomach just beyond the edge of a small copse of trees, hidden by the grass, intently watching the men. His little brother was at his side, currently napping out of boredom.
Dhamon was anything but bored, however. He’d never been more excited in all of his young life.
He’d seen Knights before, a few Solamnics who passed through town from time to time on their way to somewhere else; most likely they were headed toward Solanthus to the south, where he’d heard there was a big outpost or fort or something. He’d certainly been impressed by the Solamnics and by the quartet of Legion of Steel Knights that was in Hartford two or three years past for a special ceremony involving one of their officers. What young man wouldn’t be captivated by uniformed, armed and armored men riding massive warhorses? He’d had older friends who’d gone off to join the Solamnics. One of his close friends, Trenken Hagenson, was now a Knight and due back for a visit late this fall or early winter.
These particular Knights—Knights of Takhisis, the townsfolk called them in whispers—were impressive, and they boasted such numbers! They stirred intense emotions in the locals—fear, wonder, loathing, admiration. What Dhamon felt was awe. There was a quality about these Dark Knights that he hadn’t noticed in Knights from the other Orders. They were proud, powerful, supremely confident—Dhamon could feel their confidence all the way out here in his hiding place. What men these Knights were! If only Trenken could have seen them, he would have chosen this Order instead of the Solamnics.
Each of the Dark Knights moved with strength and grace, shoulders thrown back and chest thrust out.
There was not the slightest hint of fatigue or weakness, despite the fact they’d been up since before daybreak marching, drilling and practicing their swordsmanship. Dhamon knew all this, as he’d been here since shortly after dawn watching them.
Most of the time he’d been lying in the tall grass, as he was now, but when his neck and legs got sore, he edged back to the comfort of a willow tree and splashed himself with water from the creek. Then he stood behind the tree and spied on them through the veil of leaves as he snacked on the peaches he’d brought along. His brother had been sent to look for him, to scold him, and to bring him home to do chores. Dhamon explained he had more important things to do than shear sheep today; he had Knights to watch. His brother protested but quickly realized if he stayed here with Dhamon he could avoid his chores, too. If anyone got in trouble, it would be older brother Dhamon.
Dhamon was studying the Knight Field Commander now, his polished plate armor shining in the late afternoon sun. The man’s face glistened with sweat, and when he took off his helmet, Dhamon could see that his short hair was plastered against the sides of his head. It was the height of summer, the temperature was fierce, and the cloudless sky suggested no rain in the offing. Dhamon suspected the commander and all of his charges were miserable from the heat. The few not in armor had large wet circles under their sleeves. It was amazing that not one of the Knights had passed out.
Dhamon himself was uncomfortably hot, though he had the shade from the trees and the nearby creek to cool him off. He shrugged out of his shirt and carefully folded it, scowling to see he’d dirtied it from lying on the ground. He made a note to clean it in the creek before he returned home so he wouldn’t get in trouble.
The commander was barking more orders now. Dhamon could hear some of them. He was selecting men for another round of sword practice. After a glance at his brother to make sure he was still sound asleep, Dhamon crawled forward, determined to get a much closer look at his new heroes.
Six men were doffing their armor, taking it off piece by piece, laying it all on the ground though following some solemn ceremony. Bare-chested, they evinced gleaming muscles, and their leggings were soaked with sweat. They were paired by twos, all with long swords and shields that reflected the sun and made Dhamon squint when he stared at them.
A clap of the field commander’s hands and half the men assumed a defensive position. The other three began to strike blows against the defenders’ shields. It was like a dance, only better—Dhamon had seen plenty of dances during Hartford’s various festivals—but their movements were precise and in unison, the blows leveled in concert. A drum started beating, and the sword swings kept time. Dhamon imagined himself one of the Knights, practicing, practicing, until he was strong enough for battle. The drum’s cadence quickened, and the swings became bolder, still in unison as if choreographed by the commander. Then with one loud boom! the drum stopped and the men jumped to attention. The commander gestured to the first pair. Their swords flashed in the sun and clanged against each other, sounding crisp as bells. Dhamon was mesmerized.
For long minutes the two men met each other blow for blow, neither backing down as the other four men circled to watch. Neither appeared to tire. One man was clearly larger, and Dhamon thought he might have the advantage because of his height, but the smaller man proved faster, pivoting and slashing, bringing the shield up to deflect his opponent’s thrusts. Dhamon was so engrossed in the mock combat that he didn’t see the Knight commander step away from the circle and take a wide path through the wildflowers to steal up behind him.
The commander cleared his throat as Dhamon sprang to his feet, the color draining from his face, his mouth falling wide.
“You’re too young to be a spy,” the field commander began curtly, “and you’re not dressed properly for it. Nor do you carry any weapons.”
Dhamon cast a worried glance back toward where his brother was sleeping, where he’d left his shirt.
He wanted to say something intelligent to the commander, but his mouth had turned instantly dry, and his voice would not cooperate.
“So I’d guess you’re from nearby Hartford.”
Dhamon nervously nodded. Another glance over his shoulder. His brother was still sleeping, hidden and unawares.
“You’ve some muscles, young man.” The commander squeezed Dhamon’s arms. “So you’re no stranger to hard work. A farmer, probably, eh?”
Another nod.
“Hopefully not a mute one.”
“N-n-no Sir.” Dhamon finally managed to stammer. “I was just… just… watching.”
The field commander regarded him for several moments. Swords continued to clang in the background. “Watching?”
“Y-y-yes Sir.” A moment more and he swallowed his nervousness. “Yes, Commander. I was watching your Knights.”