The faintest smile appeared on the commander’s face, adding to the age lines around his mouth. He looked old to Dhamon, this close up. The hair at his temples was gray, and the thin mustache over his lip had white streaks in it. The man’s expression was hard, the steel-blue eyes adding to his sternness. His skin was weathered from the sun. His hands were calloused, and there was a thick, ropy scar on his forearm that Dhamon suspected came from a wound suffered in a great battle.
“And after this watching, just what do you think of my Knights…?”
Dhamon waited for the commander to add boy, as his father’s friends often did, and as did the storekeepers in town, the men to whom he delivered wool and other crops. Just what do you think of my Knights, boy? But the commander didn’t call him boy, and Dhamon realized he was asking his name.
“Dhamon Grimwulf, Sir. And, yes, I’m from Hartford. My father owns a small farm there. We raise sheep mainly”
“My Knights….?”
Dhamon swallowed hard, meeting the commander’s gaze. He threw his shoulders back and puffed out his chest, as he’d seen the Dark Knights do. “Your Knights are most impressive, Commander. I have been watching them, be-because I would like to join them. I want to become a Dark Knight, too.”
Dhamon surprised himself. Certainly he admired the Knights and fancied himself becoming one.
Fancied. It was a boyish fantasy, he told himself. Nothing more.
“There is nothing more I want, Sir, than to be a Dark Knight.” But it was more than a fantasy, he realized. It was what he really wanted to be, a Knight, not a farmer—and he wanted to be a Knight of Takhisis, not a member of the Legion of Steel or Knights of Solamnia.
“Interesting,” the commander replied. His gaze shifted to a spot by the willow tree. Dhamon’s brother had awakened and was trying to crouch behind the veil of leaves. “Does he, too, want to be a Knight?”
When the commander pointed to the younger Grimwulf, Dhamon’s brother made a squeaking noise and spun on his heels, vaulted over the creek and disappeared from sight. The slight smile grew wider on the Knight’s lined face.
“No, Sir,” Dhamon answered. “Just me. That’s my younger brother.”
“How old are you, Dhamon Grimwulf?” The smile vanished, replaced by an intensely probing expression that chased the breath from Dhamon’s lungs.
“Thirteen. Thirteen last week, Sir.”
“You look older than a mere thirteen.”
Dhamon could have lied, said sixteen or seventeen. He could easily pass for older, as he was as tall as his friends who were that age. But he was afraid to lie to this man. Those eyes could pierce any falsehood and exact a terrible retribution.
“Thirteen. That’s a little too young,” the commander said mildly, “for my unit. Though there are some who accept squires of your age. Years past our Order accepted boys at the age of twelve, but, as I said, that was years past. Now we look to young men who are sixteen, or older.”
Dhamon set his jaw. “I do want to be a Dark Knight, Sir.”
The commander slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s why you’ve been watching us all day, Dhamon?” Behind them, the sparring stopped, and the men looked over to where he stood, visible to them from a distance. The field commander raised a hand for the next two men to begin their round.
“Lying in the grass and studying my men since the sun came up?”
Dhamon tried to hide his surprise that the man knew he’d been here that long. And he had tried to keep so quiet! “Yes, Sir. I have been watching your Knights all day”
“Get your shirt, young Dhamon Grimwulf, and come visit with me and my men.”
Heart hammering wildly in his chest, Dhamon retrieved his shirt, donning it and brushing at the dirt stains as he ran as fast as his legs would carry him toward the camp. He combed his hair with his fingers and tried to look every bit as proud and confident as the bemused Knights who assembled to meet him.
“This is Dhamon Grimwulf of Hartland,” the commander said, introducing him to a half-dozen men sharpening and polishing their swords. “He wants to be a Dark Knight.”
Only one of the Knights extended his hand and nodded a greeting.
“And perhaps he will be one of us one day,” the commander continued. “In a few years. Frendal, show him around the camp, let him help set up a few tents, handle your sword. But make sure you send him home before sunset. I don’t want him getting into trouble with his family on our account.”
Perhaps he will be a Knight one day. Dhamon was instantly crestfallen, though he hid his disappointment. One day. Why not now?
Frendal, he learned, was the second-in-command of the force. Originally from Winterholm in Coastlund, he had joined the Dark Knights a dozen years earlier when he was seventeen. He’d spent the first few years stationed in the Northern Wastes and in Nightlund. Now a courier had brought an important message, and Frendal’s unit was returning to Nightlund. Frendal would reveal nothing else about their mission to Dhamon, though he regaled him with tales of battles against goblins.
“Can you fight?” Frendal asked teasingly as he passed his sword to Dhamon for inspection.
Dhamon held the sword almost reverently, finding it heavier than it looked. He admired the detail on the pommel and the crosspiece.
“It was a gift from my mother,” Frendal said. “She was a Dark Knight, too.”
“I’ve never had the opportunity to fight,” Dhamon admitted, “but I could fight. I know I could.” He stepped back and imitated a few of the sparring moves he’d seen practiced by the Knights. “I learn quickly.”
Frendal’s eyes twinkled. “I believe you do.”
The day ended all too abruptly for Dhamon, and by sunset he was back home and helping his mother set the table. His brother had told the family that he was hobnobbing with the Dark Knights, and it was the sole topic of dinner conversation.
His father was angry about it. “The Dark Knights are evil and despicable,” he said, finger wagging and eyes narrowed onto Dhamon. “They’re vile men who wage war against the righteous. If you’ve a desire to be a Knight, we’ll look into that next spring or more likely the spring after next. When I take the older ewes to the markets north of Solanthus, we’ll inquire about the likelihood of your joining the Solamnic Knights. Mind you, it’s a hard life, and dangerous, and if you pass the training you could be sent halfway across the world. But the Solamnics would be a damn far sight better than the Dark Knights.
Though I’d rather see you spend your life working this farm, I’ll not deter you. There is much to be said for service.” The elder Grimwulf took several forkfuls of potatoes. “But you’ve a few years to think about all of this. You might change your mind.”
But he wasn’t punished or forbidden. Unlike some of Dhamon’s friends, he knew his father wouldn’t force him to be a farmer or a goatherd. He wouldn’t be obligated to work this farm when he grew older.
His father was a staunch advocate of free will and following one’s heart, as he’d left home at a relatively early age to do what he pleased, so Dhamon knew his life’s ambition would be his own… in just a few short years.
“The Dark Knights…”
“—are not for you,” his father quickly cut in, “and you’re not to go out there again. Everyone in town has the sense to stay away from whatever it is the Knights are doing out there.”
Practicing, Dhamon wanted to say. Drilling and practicing and waiting for another courier before they left for Nightlund. But he said nothing. He finished his meal in silence and nodded politely as his father detailed tomorrow’s chores.
Dhamon got up before the sun the next day, finishing the bulk of his work before he again found himself between Hartford and the Vingaard River, lying in the grass and observing the Knights. He slipped back home to finish his duties shortly before noon. Then he artfully eluded his younger brother and returned to the field again before dinner. He told his father he was going to a friend’s, and he didn’t consider it entirely a lie. The commander and Frendal had been friendly enough to him. If his father discovered his ruse, he would be punished, but any punishment would be worth the chance to spend more time with these Knights.