Part I: Viridescent Earth
Chapter 1: Holvux Comes but Once a Year
The rattling of bones clicking echoed in the evening as ghoulish fiends bounded across the stony streets of Sintux. Well, at least that’s how it would appear to a foreigner. Children gleefully donned masks crafted from animal bones to wear for Holvux. Holvux came but once a year, and it was at this time that children knocked on people’s homes, begging for treats. Even the nobles participated in allowing commoners to stop by their doors.
However, many citizens found the whole event rather horrifying. It was difficult to blame them, though, with the mysticism and superstition surrounding Holvux. The day had once been known as a night of death and doom. Spirits of the dead would reenter their decomposed corpses and rise from the earth—though only the foulest of souls.
Of course, there was not an ounce of truth to Holvux. The dead could not become undead—that was ludicrous. There is nothing more permanent than death. Even so, such a fanciful historical day had been adopted as a holiday. Instead of actual demons lurking the streets, children dressed in silly outfits and demanded candy instead of blood. A fine enough substitution.
Newid sighed at the passing children, wondering how innocence could exist in such a place. So much blood had been spilled upon this stone. A sick gray sky painted the city above, and a haze shrouded his surroundings. The only sign of the sun was a pale white disc barely visible through the dark fog.
Pausing beside a fountain, Newid raised his boot to the edge, examining the strap that had suddenly come undone. He reached for it but cursed when he found the leather had snapped.
“Ill luck,” Newid muttered. With a sigh, the knight rustled his black hair, then scraped the muck from his boot as he let it rest down beside the other. He glanced up at the fountain’s angelic figurehead and chuckled. No, not a figurehead anymore, is it? He thought. A figure, for it's been beheaded. The pale hands were also snapped off and lay on the crusted dry surface beneath the bust. The wings were corroded and cracked but were predominantly intact.
Newid peered behind the fountain, staring at the dilapidated chapel beyond. Once more, he laughed. He thought of the old religion of the former people’s God and holy angels. And now, what substitute that? Nothing. Only a monarchy beneath a king who ruled through conquest. A conquest to which Newid had been detrimental to. Newid spat into the fountain and bade the destitute place farewell.
Newid passed many more children who glided by with their large tin buckets in hand with only a few treats inside. It seemed they weren’t having much better luck than Newid today. He eyed the tall castle beyond. Old and cracked. It wasn’t nearly as wrought with destruction as the chapel, but there were better castles to look upon. Hundreds of bricks were missing, and many windows still hadn’t been repaired. One of the turrets was entirely absent, with a pile of debris still lying where the room was.
This was their doing, of course. Melehan’s army overwhelmed Sintux and took it as its own. It’s ironic that we adopt so many of their traditions as our own now. We never had our own kingdom or kingship until we conquered this place. We even established a knighthood. A chivalric knight. The idea forced a mocking grin onto Newid’s face. Sir Newid the Gallant, they called him. He couldn’t have asked for much more of a cliche title. How could he complain, though? Life was good. Life is very good.
Newid proceeded up a flight of stairs and then approached a portcullis gate. Soldiers saluted as they recognized him and immediately opened the gate.
“Do you wish for a steed to ride to the castle, Sir Newid?” one of the guards asked.
Newid’s quick glare made the soldier flinch. “No,” Newid replied coolly. “It isn’t a far tread. I’ll manage fine on my own.”
“Y-Yes, of course, my lord!”
Newid shook his head as he trudged past them, keeping a palm on the hilt of his sword. Not as a means of worry but annoyance. The sheath irritatingly slapped back against his legs if he didn’t hold it firmly. Newid had considered wearing it on his back, but the draw was not as easy, and he had seen far too many men slain because they couldn’t unsheath their blades in time as it was.
The trek across the bridge was long and unsavory, making Newid begin to regret not accepting a horse. It was amazing that they had been able to overcome the defense of this city. It was even more astounding that they did nothing to assert themselves in this location. They maintained low guard and managed to repair nothing within the city. Even the bridge beneath Newid’s feet was in a sorry state with its missing bricks and blackened stone from fire.
He cringed as he peered down at the mire below. Mire was a much better word for it anyway than river. When their army invaded Sintux, the rivers were grayish-green. Not the most beautiful of colors, certainly, but the waters were still transparent. However, it was now a deep brown with a tinge of green. Bubbles popped across the surface like the broiling soup of a witch’s cauldron. This river had turned foul from the vast amount of waste and corpses dumped into it. This hadn’t ceased either. The stench of dung and death had sickeningly become normal, and most days, Newid hardly noticed it.
The portcullis gate guarding the castle was already up by the time Newid reached it. The guards saluted him as he passed, and Newid caught the sight of one of his fellow knights striding toward him. Sir Pertik. He was an audacious punk who cared too much about everything knightly. Newid figured if there was anyone who could truly be considered a knight in this cesspool of a kingdom, it was probably Sir Pertik. But good luck finding anyone who cared.
The pretty, curly-haired blond offered Newid a dashing smile as he matched Newid’s steps. “Sir Newid,” he said elegantly. “A good day to you.”
“Good? Hm. I suppose.” It was day, wasn’t it? Though it hardly ever felt so with the haze surrounding the city. Newid assumed it came from the toxins emitting from the poisonous river. After all, it didn’t appear immediately.
“Are you ready for the festival, Sir Pertik?” the younger knight asked giddily.
“I suppose.” Newid hesitated, then put in, “And you?”
“Oh, certainly! Holxuv is my favorite day of the year.’
Of course, it is, Newid thought bitterly.
“There will be many fair ladies about, too,” Pertik continued. “The trouble is, how will I dance with them all? Of course, I know you and the others will do your part in giving them a joyous night. Won’t you?”
Newid simply nodded and feigned a smile. The woman here were hardly fair. The only beautiful women he had seen in this city were long gone. Pale white throats turned red by men’s steel. My steel. Newid often wished he had been more lustful for sex than blood during the siege. He may have chosen differently had the common maid today not been akin to a sow. It churned his stomach to think that even Sir Pertik was prettier than any lady among them.
“I anticipate the food,” Newid admitted. “And . . . that’s about it. I won’t lie to you, Pertik. I care not for dances or games. I merely want to gorge myself on turkey and wine.” He chuckled. “That’s more than enough to make any man happy, I imagine.”
Pertik shared a laugh. “Yes, well, you’re right there. However, I prefer to partake in all of the revelries this life has to offer.”
Now that doesn’t sound too knightly, Newid thought, but he shrugged anyway. No point to refute his point. What was the point of calling a man a hypocrite when you were worse of one?
The two’s progression toward the castle led them up a staircase that fed directly into the mouth of the castle. Newid paused momentarily, stepping onto the red-tattered carpet lying on the gray stone. He eyed the pillars to his right, still stained with blood with a large nick upon its surface. This is where Newid had slain King Weyld. He was said to be the most valued warrior in the realm. Defeating even the new king’s father, Bradwr, in combat. Yet . . . he had hardly put up a fight against Newid. Nor did he wield the holy blade Euraidd which was said to be forged by the angels. They had later discovered that Bradwr was trying to lure them away from his wife and children. Perhaps the distraction in this endeavor had been why he fought so ill against Newid. Even still, he had failed in both tasks. His wife and children were slain, all at the hands of Newid’s lord, the new king, Melehan.
Newid stared down at his palms now, desiring a part of him to cry or scream out. Not at what he had done. He felt no remorse for any of it. He had been the one to behead the queen. He was the one who approached Bradwr’s children with his blade drawn, covered in the blood of both of their parents. He had slaughtered each of them without pause. But he felt nothing then and yet . . . there was something else he sensed within him. Anguish? Not a sadness or bitterness toward his actions necessarily, but rather, an anguish that he felt nothing. Should he not? Should he not care that he murdered senselessly? He slew in the name of his lord, but what did that matter? Newid was the one who swung the blade. Not Melehan.
“Sir Newid?” Pertik’s voice echoed into Newid’s mind and stole him away from his trance. Newid looked up at him, noticing the twinge of concern in the knight’s features.
“Nothing,” Newid replied. “Let’s continue.”
Pertik didn’t say another word as they continued, ascending a small flight of stairs and passing through a pair of tall wooden doors opened for them by guards. Within the round room, tables were still being set by servants as others strung up decorations. Large pumpkins lay on tables with horrific faces carved upon them. Black banners of a red sword hung high from the tall columns—the sigil of Melehan. The sight of servants setting about decorations alone was quite comedic. Say what you will about Sintux . . . but it takes the celebration of Holvux seriously.
There was a large gap of space in the middle of the floor, as usual. Here bards and other performers would demonstrate their talents, and tonight there would be mass dancing within the space. Tables encircled the room in tiers, with the highest tables reserved for King Melehan and his knights. The king, of course, always sat at the front and center—though much higher than the rest of the rabble.
Pertik and Newid paused as they strode about halfway across the room. Loud steps echoed as a man dressed in a long violet gown approached them. Dresch, the king’s advisor, was a sickly-looking little man. Scrawny and pale with long greasy black hair. His dark eyes appeared sagged, framed by dark circles, and his large nose often reminded Newid of a crow’s beak.
“My lords,” Dress said, bowing somewhat diffidently.
“My lord,” they replied in unison.
“His Majesty and the other knights await you in the Round Chamber. I trust you will not keep him waiting any longer?” His voice was chiding and snotty. As per usual, Newid did his best to refrain from snapping his large nose. “It is obscene for the lesser to make their betters wait. Don’t you think?” His eyes flashed to Pertik. “Especially one who is normally associated with punctuality and, of course, possesses a high reputation of being the perfect picture of a knight. Perhaps not. You are a womanizer and a lollygagger. Mayhap a slut for men as well with how you dress and wear your hair. Are you sure there isn’t a woman’s body hiding beneath all of that armor?”
Pertik gaped. Simply appalled by the assault of insults thrown his way. Even Newid couldn’t believe his ears, but not even he would speak so low to Pertik. I don’t care an ilk for Pertik’s honor, reputation, or even of his personal well-being for that manner. But Newid wasn’t going to allow this man to drag on for another second.
“Lord Dresch,” Newid began. “You are an insect hardly even worth speaking with. But just this once, I will grant you the blessing of hearing my voice directed toward you. Do not speak so ill toward a knight again. Be it to me, Sir Pertik, or any other. You talk of manners regarding the lesser and greater; well, I frankly agree with your assertions. Let us also concur that it is a far more significant crime to disrespect those superior to you. Need I remind you, Dresch, that you are no longer a superior of ours? We have risen to nobility. A nobility that far out trumps your minuscule rank. The king’s advisor, yes. But not the king himself and hardly even a lord. You’re a wretch who does anything he can to try and sustain power—or at least, pretend to have any, to which you have none.” Every word was true too. King Melehan didn’t even listen to most of Dresch’s advice. Not even Newid would go there, though. That might come too close to critiquing the king himself and making Newid openly a hypocrite. I am a hypocrite, no doubt of that, but Dresch doesn’t need to know that.
Dresch’s tongue seemed to be tied, and he offered no retort to Newid’s onslaught. With that, Newid bid him farewell and departed. Pertik, also speechless, followed soon after.
“Thank you for defending my honor,” Pertik said in a hushed whisper.
“Of course,” Newid replied. He did not need to be congratulated or thanked, but he couldn’t ignore the man.
They entered another circular room, but this one was a dusty blue supplied by little ornamentation. Only a massive round table sat at its center, with knights sitting around it. King Melehan sat on the opposite side of the entrance and smiled toward the two knights. The old king’s scars seemed as fresh as always. One large gash spanned from the side of his skull to the middle of his forehead, while the other was a jagged line across his cheek, perfectly visible even through his bushy beard.
“Welcome,” King Melehan said.
“Your Majesty,” the two knights replied.
“Take your seat at the table.”
The two took their places immediately. As always, Sir Tom sat on Newid’s left and Sir Morholt on his right.
“I imagine you are all troubled that I called you here today for a round table meeting,” Melehan began, his brows knitting in concern. “After all, it is Holvux, and we should be celebrating on a day like today! But . . . I have some ill news. I received a letter of self-invitation, well, that is what he called it. A man called “The Black Knight” wishes to test you knights. He says he has heard a great deal of your valor and desires to gauge the worth of my court and kingdom.”
“That . . . is the most absurd thing I have ever heard,” said Llyr. Sir Llyr, garbed in green with a golden eagle emblazoned on his chest, had long blond hair gently tucked behind his ears and a long golden beard shaved at the cheeks. “He invites himself to our celebrations and then says he wishes to test us?”
“Your Majesty, are there more specifics?” Sir Morholt asked. Morholt was garbed in a black tunic worn over chainmail. His brown hair was unruly, and his face was clean-shaven. A respectable man, at least, as close as respectable as most of this lot came.
“Let me have exactly what’s been said read off,” the king replied. He reached inside his black robes, pulling out a scroll. He checked his surroundings momentarily, and his face reddened with rage. “Where is that useless Dresch!”
“Allow me, Your Majesty,” Sir Brunor said, holding out his hand. The dark-armored knight was the king’s younger brother and wore their house's sigil on his chest.
Melehan nodded and handed the scroll to his brother.
Brunor unrolled the scroll and cleared his throat. He adjusted a small candle in front of him for better visibility. He read:
“To His Royal Majesty
King Melehan Faylan,
I hereby proclaim this a self-invitation to your festivities of the demonic pagan holiday named Holvux. I come to you from a faraway place known as Arell. A holy place that the people you slaughtered held in high reverence. Many have trekked to Arell on pilgrimages in hopes of attaining enlightenment . . . but none have ever succeeded. Though, all who embark on this journey are said to be blessed. Those of pure and innocent intentions, of course.
I travel long and far and have already passed many milestones. The West Sea, the Dark Tower, the lands of ice and fire, the Green Chapel, the Gardens of Regum, and so on . . . This, I have done, all in order to meet with you and your court. I find myself specifically interested in your knights. Who are supposed champions of valor and courage. I know this is not so. For you have slaughtered, plundered, raped, pillaged, burned, and so much more . . . You live as a king now. Mounted upon a throne of skulls. Sleeping abed atop corpses. But justice shall be served.
However, I do not come to fight. Rather, I come only to present the task which I offer to your knights. I will not speak of it in this letter but rather in my flesh. You will not see me speak, but you shall hear me. That I promise you. Judgment shall fall upon you, your knights, and the rest of your court. The decision lies in the hands of your knights, however. Not yours, oh great king.
Now, I leave you with one final piece of information to satisfy you before my visit upon Holvux. If your knights should fail upon this task—you will all burn, just as you have burned others. That, I promise you.
Farewell until we meet,
The Black Knight”
There was silence for a time until the knights shook the chamber with their roars of laughter. Most of them partook, but Newid didn’t. He couldn’t laugh, but he understood their amusement. The king, Morholt, Brunor, and Pertik, also didn’t laugh.
“This . . . is not humorous!!!” King Melehan roared.
Everyone quieted. The king matched each man with a dangerous steady gaze. To Newid’s discontent, the king stared him down as well.
Summoning up visible courage to speak, Sir Pertik asked, “What will we do then, Your Majesty? Surely we cannot allow this intruder to insult us in front of everyone?”
Melehan sighed and slumped back in his chair. “We will let him in. I assume he provided the name “the Black Knight” as an easy means to recognize him when he arrives. We will allow him entry into the city and castle. I’ll hear what he has to say and perhaps accept his test—and then be done with it. Melehan wiped his hands and rose. “Well . . . that’s it then. The rest is up to you, knights. After all, it’s all of you he really wishes to test.” The king left the table and departed from the room. His echoing footsteps were the only sound the knights heard for some time as they sat in silence, soaking in his words.
