Redemption

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.”

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.

How many more days would they stay here? he wondered, hoping the courier was coming from some great distance and wouldn’t arrive for perhaps a few more weeks. He saw nothing despicable or evil about these Knights, and they certainly weren’t vile in their attitude towards him. They were exceedingly clever men, he thought, noting their routine. Their tents were pitched in straight rows, but each row offset the next, so to the undiscerning eye it would appear the tents were haphazardly scattered. There was a pattern to the patrols, but it had taken Dhamon two days of studying the pattern and scratching notes in the dirt to figure it out, and he knew no enemy would decipher it without doing the same.

He felt he couldn’t approach them again, unless invited. Twice he caught Frendal looking toward the willow, and he suspected the Knight might have spotted him, in spite of his precautions and silence.

Let them figure out I’m here, he thought, that I’m interested. The more Dhamon thought about it, the more he knew he wanted to join the Order. He didn’t want to wait until next spring or the spring after that to become a Solamnic Knight. He no longer wanted to become a Solamnic anyway.

The drumming started again, and again the men lined up to spar. This time the attackers were using a variety of weapons—spears, flails, maces, even some crude and unusual-looking hatchets and polearms, perhaps of goblin make.

“Maybe they’re going to fight a hobgoblin army and they want to practice how to defend against their weapons,” he mused. “Glorious!” The thought of such a battle ignited a passion in him that he hadn’t known existed. He felt his face flush. Frendal had said they were heading deep into Nightlund, and it was common knowledge that there were goblins, hobgoblins, ogres, and trolls there. “Maybe Frendal will tell me what they’re planning if I sneak up and catch his eye….”

That hope died in a sharp breeze that swelled up out of nowhere, cutting the heat and flattening the grass. The shadows stretched to their limits and whipped about in the growing wind.

“What in…”

A heartbeat later his question was answered. A shadow cut across the setting sun, and Dhamon felt his throat constrict. He could scarcely catch his breath, and there was a rushing sound in his ears. It was a dragon coming in from the northwest, and the mere sight of it caused Dhamon to shake uncontrollably.

He didn’t know at the time that dragons wore an aura of fear the way a soldier wears a uniform. A dragon can cause entire towns to flee in terror. A dragon can also control its fear-magic, as the one landing was doing now, so the Dark Knights could stand unaffected in its imperious presence.

Yet Dhamon continued to shiver, and tears spilled from his eyes. He parted the grass so he could see what was going on. He was amazed and frightened all in the same instant, so frightened he couldn’t budge, though his mind told him he should, ordered his legs to run as fast as they could to take him as far away from here as possible. Dhamon slammed his mouth shut to keep his teeth from clattering, and his fingers nervously worked into the dirt.

The dragon was blue. In the sunlight its color looked like the surface of a wind-tossed lake, scales shimmering a vibrant hue and appearing to be constantly in motion. The creature tucked its wings to its sides and thumped its tail against the ground once, the force sending two nearby Knights to their knees.

Its huge equine-shaped head was all planes and angles yet somehow beautifully elegant. Its eyes were catlike slits of brightest yellow inside black orbs, filled with cunning and intelligence.

One rider sat on the dragon, dressed in a full suit of plate armor and wearing a heavily lined wool cloak that was out of place in the summer weather. As the rider slid from the dragon’s back, he was quick to remove the cloak and helmet. Dhamon guessed the man was in his early twenties—so young, and riding a dragon! He passed a trio of bound scroll tubes to the Knight Commander. Dhamon noted that the dragon tipped its head to the commander—a dragon offering a human a measure of respect!

“I will be a Dark Knight,” Dhamon whispered to himself, “and someday I will ride a dragon, too.”

He’d heard tales of the Knights of Takhisis dragon-riders, and all his life he’d heard about the dragons of Krynn, but never had he actually seen one. This grand creature yielded to these men—to these Knights. He recalled that his father said he’d seen a dragon once, a bronze one when he was a young man traveling with friends in the Vingaard Mountains just north of Brasdel. His father said he’d never been more frightened, yet he somehow couldn’t run away. He simply watched with fascination as the creature rode the air currents above the highest mountains, searching for… something, he could tell.

“Seeing your first dragon, son, is something you will never, ever forget,” he said. And Dhamon knew he wouldn’t forget, he’d lock away this time in his memory and tell his own children about what he’d witnessed, someday.

The commander and the courier talked for several minutes. Straining to hear what was said, Dhamon picked out mention of Nightlund and Throtl. He heard clearly that the men would break camp at dawn.

Eventually the courier left, the great blue dragon knocking the Knights to their knees with the force it created as its wings beat to carry it high into the darkening sky. Dhamon watched the dragon depart, still trembling, still crying from fright, more determined than ever now to join these men.

The dragon circled the camp once, then banked to the north, wings spread wide and gliding with the wind. Dhamon’s eyes never left the dragon until it became a speck of ink in the sky and then disappeared entirely from view. He imagined it was heading to the northern desert. He’d heard blue dragons relished the sand and heat. He was able to pick himself up from the ground then, as the trembling finally subsided.

He washed in the creek, discovering that he’d soiled himself in his fear. He returned home a few hours after the sun had set, climbing through the window and into the small bedroom he shared with his brother.

He would never be a Solamnic Knight like his friend Trenken Hagenson. He would become a Dark Knight! And he wasn’t about to wait another year for it to happen. Silent as a cat, he gathered a few changes of clothes in a canvas sack and thrust two steel pieces he’d saved into his pocket. He wanted to tell his brother good-bye, but he didn’t dare wake him—then risk having his parents wake, too. They’d only stop him, or try to. He crept into the kitchen, looking for some peaches—he’d skipped dinner watching the Knights, and his stomach was rumbling. One last look around the home, which held mostly pleasant memories, then he quietly closed the door behind him.

Dhamon hadn’t made it much past the tool shed when he sensed he was being watched. He stopped but kept his eyes trained north.

“Don’t stop me, father. I have to do this. You know this life isn’t for me. I will never be a farmer.”

There was the crunch of boots over the dry earth, the sound of hands smoothing at clothes, the clearing of his father’s throat. His father stood only a few feet behind him. “Dhamon, the Dark Knights are despicable,” he repeated. “You’re a good son, and you’ll be a good man. This path you want to head down, it’s not for you.”

“The Dark Knights aren’t evil. I’ve been watching them, father. They are admirable, honorable men.”

Dhamon turned. In the twilight, with the stars just starting to appear, his father’s face was indistinct, but he could sense that it was etched with sadness and concern.

“I have to choose my own path, father, like you did. And I want to do this now. No. I have to do this.”

Dhamon was going to say other things; that his father might succeed in stopping him now, but maybe not the next time and certainly could not hold him here forever. That he had no desire to be a Solamnic Knight come next spring or the spring after that. He wanted to go with the Knights now. But Dhamon didn’t say anything else, he simply watched as his father drew his hands up to the back of his neck and unfastened the clasp of a chain.

“I was only a year older than you when I went off on my own,” his father said, the resignation heavy in his voice, “and your mother would cry if she knew I was letting you go now. But I wager if I stop you now, I’ll only be keeping you here for a little while longer. Still, I’ve a hope you’ll see this all as a foolish notion and come back sooner or later.”

He held the chain in one palm. Dhamon’s father had worn the chain every day of every year. Dhamon had never seen him take it off, until now. “My father gave this to me the day I left home.” The chain was silver, sparkling faintly, and from it dangled an old gold coin with worn edges. Dhamon moved closer.

There was a man’s profile on the coin, bearded and with an unusual-looking helmet topped by a dangling plume from which hung a “1”. The man’s eye was a tiny, bluish diamond.

“Ours is a very old family, Dhamon,” his father said. “We trace our roots to Istar. More than eight hundred years before the Cataclysm, Istarians traded throughout the world. Our ancestors were said to have been among the richest merchants, owning a grand fleet and commanding shares in every caravan that crossed the interior.”

Dhamon nodded, remembering some of the stories his father had told and retold after dinner on special occasions.

“These merchants set aside their work during the Third Dragon War and took up weapons. Then they took up shovels and began to help people rebuild and prosper. One of our ancestors, Haralin Grimwulf, chose to aid the dwarves.”

“I remember the story,” Dhamon said. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, wanting to leave before his father managed to say something that would change his mind and make him stay.

“It was shortly after the war that the dwarves of Thorbardin were granted rights to mine in the Garnet Mountains. This was said to be the very first coin minted from there.” His father pointed to the “1” and to the diamond. “This is an extremely special coin. No other exists just like it, not even in the great storehouses in Palanthas.”

Worth a great deal because it was gold and set with a diamond, Dhamon knew, worth more if indeed it was so ancient and singular—certainly worth enough to buy his father a large farm and livestock. A true relic, a true family legacy.

“This coin was given by the dwarves to Haralin—for his help in the Third Dragon War and for working with them as they established the garnet mine. It has been passed down through the centuries from father to son. And now I’m giving it to you.” He placed it around Dhamon’s neck and tucked the coin under the V of his shirt. “Go to your Dark Knights, son. I’ve every confidence you’ll eventually learn you’ve no place with them and that you’ll either come home or find some other grand adventure.

When you settle down, and when you raise your own family—though you may be very far from here—give this coin to your own first son and tell him of our Istar roots.”

His father’s eyes were watery, but he did not cry.

“I will pass this on to my first son,” Dhamon vowed, “but I will find a place with the Dark Knights, father.” And I will ride the dragons, he added to himself. “You will be proud of me.” Then, gladdened that his father hadn’t stopped him, he turned and sprinted away so his father wouldn’t see his own tears.

He didn’t stop running until he reached the Knights’ camp.

“Dhamon Grimwulf,” the field commander cried when he spotted him approaching beyond the last row of tents.

The sky was caught between night and morning, those hazy few moments when the world appears indecisive about whether to go on. There’s a silence then, the animals seeming to hold their breath in anticipation. Then the line of rosy pink touches the far horizon, the birds start singing, and Krynn announces yes, there will be another day.

“I am going to be a Dark Knight,” Dhamon stated. His shoulders were square, his chin thrust out, his eyes filled with a fierce determination. He expected the field commander to repeat that he was too young, to send him back home, but that didn’t happen.

“Help Frendal with his tent,” the commander returned jauntily. “We’ll be leaving soon for Nightlund.

We’re going to join up with another unit. You will have much to learn along the way, young Grimwulf.

And if you pass the tests….” There was a pause, and the commander looked Dhamon over carefully.

“I will pass all of your tests, Sir.”

“Then I will be the first to welcome you into the fold.”

There were times when Dhamon swore he was too tired to sleep. There was no part of him that didn’t ache; his arms especially ached—from carrying supplies and practicing with a sword. His fingers were so calloused they bled for days, and just when he thought they’d started to heal he was given a new weapon to learn and heavier packs to carry, and they’d start bleeding all over again. He never entertained the notion of quitting, though the field commander had asked him if he cared to quit on more than one occasion. Each night he tugged the ancient coin from beneath his shirt, ran his thumb around the edge, and wondered what his family was doing.

Dhamon had expected the training to be rigorous, but he also expected some amount of glamor and excitement—and of course battles. All around him the men sparred and sharpened their weapons, polished their armor and talked about the ogres they expected to fight in Nightlund. Dhamon was left out of most conversations, though Frendal seemed to make it a point to chat with him once in a while. Once he even asked Dhamon about the old coin, and Dhamon welcomed the opportunity to regale him with the tale of the ancient Istarian merchant who’d been rewarded by the dwarves. But mostly Dhamon kept to himself and watched and waited, and in the quiet time when he had a break, he often practiced alone with a borrowed weapon.

One day they were nearing the Nightlund border, camping in a farm field, when Frendal assigned Dhamon a sparring partner. Dhamon performed poorly the first few sessions but quickly mastered swings and defensive poses and began to develop maneuvers of his own. Before the week was out he had won a match against a seasoned Knight. His real training started then, more intense than he could have imagined. His hands bled worse than ever, and his evenings were filled with studies by candlelight. He was tasked with committing to memory the precepts of the Order, the chain of command, and the storied history of the Dark Knights.

When they finally joined up with a second unit—across a Vingaard tributary and well into Nightlund now—he was tested first by Frendal, then the field commander, and finally put through an examination by a gaunt-looking Knight who wore robes rather than plate armor and whose facial features could have placed him anywhere between the age of forty and sixty.

“So young,” the gaunt Knight commented, “to want to follow our ways.”

Dhamon respectfully nodded, unsure if he was supposed to address the man directly.

“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.

His eyes flew open! Her madness—that was the key. Her madness had weakened the creature, warped its mind.

“I am not weak,” the Chaos wight argued. “Nothing has weakened me.”

But Dhamon knew otherwise, wrapping his thoughts around Fiona and the hint of her madness, concentrating on that idea.

“Stop!” the creature keened.

Dhamon didn’t stop. He only increased his efforts.

Suddenly the Chaos wight’s hands withdrew from him, and the undead creature floated to the ceiling, pinprick eyes glaring down at Dhamon. “You think you have won!” it taunted.

“Aye, beast, I have won. You’ll take no more memories from us, and you’ll not threaten my companions again.”

“Pass this way again and…”

“And I’ll win again,” Dhamon said as he backed out of the shop. It was dusk, and when he looked down the street he saw Ragh and Fiona walking toward him. The Solamnic Knight had a pitcher in her hand, and Ragh was carrying two large mugs. They’d finally managed to obtain water from the well, and under the draconian’s arm was a rolled up sheet of parchment.

“Let’s get out of here!” Ragh called when he spotted Dhamon.

“Immediately,” Dhamon replied.

“You’ve not won.” He heard those words as a whisper carried on a chill gust of wind. “You’ve lost something very precious, Dhamon Grimwulf: your family and a piece of your history.”

Dhamon shook his head. He’d lost nothing that he could discern. He’d never had a family.