“Frendal tells me you are exceptional with a sword and that you can recite the names and dates as well as any Knight here.”
Another nod.
“When were the Dark Knights born?”
“In the year 352,” Dhamon began, “when Ariakan, son of the Dragon Highlord Ariakas and the sea goddess Zeboim, was captured by the Knights of Solamnia.”
“And in the Summer of Chaos…?”
“The year 383. Ariakan directed his Knights to invade Ansalon. They took more territory in one month than all the dragonarmies had managed to conquer during the War of the Lance.”
The stranger smiled and cupped his hands in front of Dhamon, mumbled words in a long-lost tongue.
Magic! The stranger’s palms took on a pale blue glow that quickly darkened and rose to form a sphere that hovered between their heads.
“You know the dates and the names and the conquests, young man. Yet to you I sense they are merely words. There is no real feeling behind them.”
Dhamon opened his mouth to protest, but the stranger’s curious expression cut him off.
“I will change that, young man. I will add feeling and understanding to your history lessons.” With a gesture the sphere sparkled and became translucent. Then it moved forward, enveloped Dhamon’s head and seemed to disappear.
Dhamon was no longer in the farm field. He was in Neraka, in the midst of an impressive force of draconians and on his way to the Dark Queen’s temple. Solamnic Knights came upon them, and the fighting began. He could smell the blood in the air, the wails of the dying filled his ears, and the carnage was everywhere. Dhamon was able to cut down five of the Solamnics before he was subdued… as Ariakan had slain five before he was captured.
Dhamon was in Ariakan’s place!
Wounded and defeated, Dhamon was dragged to the High Clerist’s Tower and imprisoned, just as Ariakan had been. It wasn’t long before the Solamnics became impressed by his courage and intelligence and considered him a valuable captive indeed.
Through the magic-induced vision Dhamon watched himself as Ariakan scrutinize the Solamnics and pretend to be “rehabilitated.” He claimed to be their friend and asked to study with them, but when the time was right, he would leave, armed with the knowledge to start his own Order.
Dhamon suddenly felt cold. Chilled to the bone, he wrapped his arms around his chest in a futile effort to warm himself. His legs stung from the biting wintery wind and from trudging so high into the mountains that ringed the Dark Queen’s glorious city. Hungry and frostbitten, Dhamon saw himself as Ariakan wandering lost, praying to his mother Zeboim for help. That help was granted in the form of a trail of sea shells. The shells led him to a deep cavern where he rested and recovered and witnessed a manifestation of Takhisis—who gave him her blessing for the Knighthood.
He wanted to see more—much more! But there was a soft, popping sound, and Dhamon reluctantly shook off the magic-induced dream and awoke. He was still chilled, despite it being summer, and his legs were still sore.
“Now, young man, you begin to have some feeling for our history,” the gaunt Knight said.
Dhamon clenched his hands and said yes, and saying yes he felt something sharp bite into his palm. It was a sea shell—one he kept for many years as a remembrance of his first evening at the side of the Dark Knight priest.
There were many more nights when he experienced other magical dream-visions of himself as Ariakan. Through these visions the priest allowed him to relive the history of the Knighthood and the establishment of the Blood Oath and the Code.
“I want nothing more than to be a Dark Knight,” Dhamon told the priest one evening. “Not a squire, not a camp worker. More than anything I want to be a Dark Knight.”
That evening the priest—who had never in all this time given Dhamon his name—offered a smile that was both warm and unsettling. “Young man, you are a Dark Knight.”
Dhamon was given a sword that very evening, a fine one with a crosspiece that looked like dragon talons. He was fitted for armor, given a night-black tabard and cloak, and sworn into the Order.
“Dhamon Grimwulf, you are the edge of a blade,” Frendal intoned. “Wielded by our field commander, the blade will sweep into the heart of Nightlund and slay our enemies.”
“The edge of a formidable blade,” Dhamon said with great pride.
“You embrace our Knighthood and leave behind your common past,” Frendal continued.
“Yes, I leave it all behind,” Dhamon agreed.
Frendal reached to Dhamon’s neck, to the chain and ancient coin that hung there. He ground his boot heel into the soft Nightlund soil and dug a hole. “Behind forever,” Frendal said as he dropped the family relic into the earth and covered it up.
Dhamon stomped the covering earth flat. “Behind forever,” he said.
When they marched the next day into battle against a tribe of ogres, Dhamon thought only fleetingly about the valuable family heirloom and experienced only the slightest regret that it would never be passed to another Grimwulf.
“Your memories are rich, Dhamon Grimwulf.”
Dhamon wiped at his eyes. He was inside the abandoned fortune teller’s shop again, and the Chaos wight was inches away, its eyes burning brighter than ever.
“That was a most wondrous memory” the creature said. The undead thing loomed in its lizardlike form, its thorny antlers bigger and more intricate than before. “Your mind is far more complex than the draconian’s, much healthier than the woman’s.”
“Fiona! If you’ve done anything—”
“I told you I did not physically harm her. I took only a few scattered memories from the woman, confusing and nonsensical, none so delicious and sustaining as yours.”
The creature hovered inches above the floor, looking much darker and forbidding now. Dhamon sensed it had gained power from whatever it claimed to have taken from him.
“So delicious, I must have another memory from you. Only one more.” The wight glided toward Dhamon, long fingers growing longer, like vipers readying themselves to strike.
“Our agreement!” Dhamon recalled. “Our agreement was one memory, and you said you would let us leave this town.”
“Perhaps, but can you prove I have taken anything from you yet? I’ve taken nothing. You owe me a memory.”
“I very much doubt that, demon!”
“Delicious memories,” the wight repeated in Rig’s voice, then the voice became Feril’s, Riki’s, and finally it was Fiona’s. “I must have one more memory. One more, and you may go.”
Ghostlike, the viper fingers came at him, thrusting themselves inside his head. Dhamon tried to shift away, but the wight followed him, eyes glowing and maw opening. Its tongue snaked out and wrapped itself around Dhamon’s neck to hold him.
“One more memory, I said. Then you may leave.”
Dhamon fought the wight with all of his willpower. “I shouldn’t’ve let you inside my mind the first time,” he cursed. “I shouldn’t’ve believed you.”
“Believe me,” the wight cooed. “Just one more memory.”
“No!” Dhamon threw all his effort into one thought which might keep the Chaos creature at bay.
He’d done something before to stall it, he knew. He felt an odd sensation, and a ripple passed down his back, as if he’d been chilled by a blast of wintry air. “No!” What he felt was the Chaos wight invading his mind.
A myriad of memories coursed through Dhamon, childhoods of the people who used to live in this town, flashes of happiness from young lovers, losses of dear friends, strange incidents, too—memories of dogs and parrots and other creatures once kept as pets by the citizens here. The wight had killed them all, drained all their memories. For an instant, he sensed Fiona, perhaps touching a memory the wight had stolen from her. The Fiona-memory was eerie and disturbing. “Madness,” Dhamon whispered. He’d encountered a part of Fiona’s madness.