Relentless

By David Folker

The Junk Knight is a famed relic-hunter. A grim mercenary with a fell reputation. An angry loner prone to fits of rage. The locals stay clear. Unless they need protection. But you don’t count on the Junk Knight to bend a sympathetic ear to your plight. You need payment. And relics aren’t exactly easy to come by...

But when a stranger undertakes an impossible quest to rescue an innocent from a dark fate, Junk Knight is moved. No one knows why. Least of all Junk Knight. What was it that made this stranger’s plight so irresistible?

Junk Knight will quickly learn that the stranger is not what he seems. That the quest is not what it seems.

The darkest adversities of Junk Knight’s forgotten past, long since buried, will rise up once again to haunt the troubled mercenary, threatening the success of their venture.

Will they prevail?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Folker
• Release date: Jan 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463225028

David Folker

David Folker was born and raised in rural Queensland. He left the serenity of the country to study Education at Brisbane, where he now teaches by day and writes stories by night. David drives his wife and children crazy by flinging around useless words like “auspicious” and “meandering” whenever there is an occasion to do so. An avid fan of the fantasy genre (and reading/gaming in general), Relentless is David’s first foray into the realm of published writing.

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Ark House Press

PO Box 1722, Port Orchard, WA 98366 USA

PO Box 1321, Mona Vale NSW 1660 Australia

PO Box 318 334, West Harbour, Auckland 0661 New Zealand

arkhousepress.com

© David Folker 2019

Unless otherwise stated, all Scriptures are taken from the New Living Translation (Holy Bible. New Living Translation copyright© 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.)

Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Cataloguing in Publication Data:

Title: Relentless

ISBN: 978-0-6487150-8-5 (pbk)

Subjects: Fiction

Other Authors/Contributors: Folker, David

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For someone. I don’t know who you are,

but you will know that this book has been written for you.

May this tale inspire you to seek Truth and, together, vanquish the past.

Contents

Prologue

Storms in a Den

Madman

Fool’s Errand

The Depths of the Dead Wood

No Escape

Aftermath

Beyond the Dark Heart

The Glade of Whispers

The Mist Stalker

Ancient Powers

Magellan Swamp

Fiends

Ambush

The Madman and The Hunter

Knight

Crossing the Foetid Wastes

The Way Forward

The Scree Field

The Abyss

Approaching the Thunder Head

Into the Storm

The Hidden Chamber

The Crystal

Shadows of the Past

Madman’s Gap

Crossing the Hall of Eons

The Valley of Mourning

Decent into Madness

The Edge of Reality

Shattered Illusions

The Lies of the Enemy

Unraveling the Past

The Greatest Deception

A Different Perspective

Confronting the Past

Departure

Awakening

The Sorrow-Binder

Hero

Answers

Epilogue

Prologue

A long time ago in a different age, a man once told me that to lay down one’s life in the name of a righteous cause was a hero’s greatest honour. Recent events have drawn me to linger upon the memory of my courageous friend and, not for the first time in these last few days, I have caught myself wondering whether or not I believe him.

For if self-sacrifice was indeed the lofty ideal of such heroes, then honour, at least in my day, is as dead as the splintering bones that litter the plains of the Wastelands. The light of such courage faded from this world on that fateful day when our greatest heroes abandoned us.

At least that is what I thought for the longest time.

I stare through tear-stained eyes at the silhouette of the man before me, the radiance of dawn’s first light framing his sturdy features. His eyes are hopeful and his earnest lips are poised with the question that has brought me to the end of myself. Could it be true? Dare I hope to accept the whisper of a promise spoken so easily?

Could I actually regain that which was lost?

This is the tale of my redemption. This is the story of our sacrifice.

Chapter 1

Storms in a Den

Our journey began in the dank confines of the most reprehensible traveler’s den that you could possibly imagine. On that particular day I sat morosely at my table, barely aware of the drone of conversation that hover ed at the fringes of my consciousness. I kept no company and regulars knew all too well to keep their distance, unless they were first invited to initiate matters of business. Drawing deeply from the worn pipe gripped all-too-tightly in the fingers of my rusted gauntlet, I happened to glance towards the door as it was abruptly thrust open.

A figure stood framed in the doorway, tall and imposing. The frigid wind accompanying the early evening storm roared past him and whipped through the room, snapping me out of my stupor. My body gave an unconscious shudder as the piercing chill swept effortlessly through the gaps in my armour. Grumbling to myself, I half-heartedly took stock of this newcomer with a muted sense of curiosity.

His hair, face and arms were streaming with water that swiftly ran into a puddle gathered at his feet. A long dagger was plunged thoughtlessly into the belt at his waist and a leather satchel hung on the opposite side. He held a sturdy staff in one hand and his other was clenched into an impatient fist beside his bag. The pommel of a sword could be seen just above his broad shoulders. His powerful arms were completely bare, being clad only in a worn jerkin. His trousers and boots were covered in mud.

No cloak, I thought to myself stupidly. Where is his cloak?

There was an intensity about his presence that caused the wayfarers to each take stock of the stranger one at a time as he silently offered his weapons to the den’s bruiser. His weathered features were those of a man who unmistakably endured the elements on a daily basis, although his true age was impossible to gauge. If his face was the earth, his eyes were the verdant green of nature’s own fury.

Conversations lulled into silence as the traveler cast his stern gaze across the gathering and, upon spying his target, he strode purposefully across the room.

Right towards me.

I flew to my feet, instinctively reaching for my empty flagon of ale and, in that split-second prior to contact, my old fighter’s instincts ignited. Land the first blow to his mouth, I thought impassively. Sweep his ankle while he is reeling. Get him on the ground and then reassess the threat.

But I was mistaken. A fellow patron cut in front of the stranger, his arms loaded with beverages and so the man turned wide to avoid him, striding straight past my location before I could even take stock of his changed trajectory. I stood there stunned, my mind still fumbling through the fog of self-inflicted stupor as I watched him stalk directly towards a regular partaker of the den’s facilities. I had never bothered to learn this miscreant’s name, although I knew him to be a man of ill-repute. He was always surrounded by men of similar ilk and presently they appeared to be engaged in some manner of inane conversation.

The fool duly ignored the stranger as he drew alongside the table, in spite of the looming threat of his presence. No doubt the idiot was seeking to antagonise him.

This is about to get interesting, I thought to myself. Turning towards the barkeep, I waved my flagon impatiently and, upon catching his eye, slid back into my inert position. I drew upon my pipe and leaned in towards the conflict.

Where is she? The stranger’s voice was quiet but layered in threat. A hush fell upon the gathering. None bothered with the pretence of disinterest any longer.

The arrogant fool lolled back in his chair, smirking even as he forced a false frown of consternation twisted across his face. Who exactly are you talking about, friend? There are many women who live in these parts. A snort of derision erupted from one of his counterparts. The man glanced back toward his peers, grinning as though he had wrought some great jest.

I frowned as I struggled to discern what grievance had transpired between these two men. The stranger’s fists were both clenched now. His voice remained level but his eyes had narrowed in a cold, smoldering rage.

I know that you took her. Where is she?

A scowl crossed my lips as I finally understood their issue and I inadvertently rose to my feet in outrage. My contempt for the miscreant had now escalated into a raging desire to punch him squarely in his smug, stupid face. Once, I would have been duty-bound to admonish this villain and right this heinous wrong. Now, I only entertained notions of gravely hurting this evil man, should the stranger fail to do so.

I felt the dull thump of a fresh flagon of ale being delivered to my table and heard the mumble of an apology from the barkeep, who, I can only assume had noted my change in posture and wrongly assumed I was on route to demand service. I waved him away impatiently, standing in tense readiness for what would come next.

At last the villain turned to stare callously into the face of his accuser. Just to be clear to all these gentle folk gathered here, he gestured theatrically across the room, again scoring a chortle from one of his associates. The fool then matched the stranger’s withering gaze with an expression of ugly defiance. I didn’t take her, friend. She was running! So I helped her is what I did. Found some nice travellers who were all-too willing to take her far from here. His mouth twisted with a challenging grin. Away from you.

At first there was no reaction. Just the movement of the kidnapper’s head turning with indifferent nonchalance as if the stranger were non-existent. In the context of this arena, he was no real threat. Perhaps he would strike the man, perhaps even land several blows, but then his companions would be onto him and before long they would exact their revenge. I had seen it happen many times before. In my younger, more fool-hardy days, I had attempted similar feats when my honour had been sufficiently rankled. Each time the confrontation had ended with predictable results.

But then the stranger struck.

The blow was like a clap of thunder, his clenched fist slamming into the table with such force that it sent the companions reeling and threw their refreshments into disarray, even as the thugs leapt clear or fell backwards amidst shouts of alarm. At first I thought the blow had upended the table and part of me was impressed by such a feat. Then, I noticed that this was not the case.

The blow had split the entire table into broken halves.

A collective gasp of astonishment erupted from the spectators. I made no such noise. My eyes narrowed in suspicion and a hand inadvertently drifted around my shoulder for the axe that usually hung there, except I had obviously left it at the door. While feats of remarkable strength were not unheard of, such power was usually bestowed by use of a relic, which would flare with light when its power manifested. I had observed no such indication that the man was potentially carrying such a potent treasure. A spike of shame abruptly tore through me, but the stranger’s abrupt shout of command snapped me out of my reverie before the evil thoughts could linger.

Where are they taking her? The villain, recoiling from the roar of his fury, stumbled backwards, fumbling his response.

The...Valley of Mourning. They’re taking her to the Valley of Mourning. He cringed, fully expecting to be struck. I’m sorry, he whined, even as my body shuddered with revulsion at the very name.

The Valley of Mourning. An infernal, cursed place where the deranged or hopeless would go to offer sacrifices to the Tyrant’s beloved creature that was bound there in return for its boon. I had been there many times and knew all too well the grim reality of her plight. I sighed with what I presume must have been the faintest vestige of sorrow as I sank back into my chair and took a long draught of my beverage. Patrons began to mutter in disbelief, eyes still drawn to the site of the conflict.

But then something unexpected occurred. The stranger’s intense demeanour abruptly shifted to one of insistent urgency. When? His tone was urgent, even hopeful.

Four days ago, the man cautiously rose to his feet, still expecting an attack.

I frowned as I struggled to make sense of this. Why would it matter?

There is still time. The stranger spoke with what appeared to be certainty, instantly turning on his feet towards the door. I stared after him, dumbfounded, as he held out his hand in expectation towards the bruiser, who, glancing from the ruined table back to the stranger’s grimace, hurriedly retrieved his cache and offered the weapons without dispute. The stranger threw open the door and surged into the storm, leaving pandemonium in his wake.

I cannot say how long I must have stared after him, attempting without any measure of success to comprehend what had just transpired. Did he actually intend to pursue them? Was he so enamoured with this wayward maiden that all sense of reason had clouded his judgement? She was gone. There was not even the faintest chance of reaching her in time. I should know, I had been paid to accompany patrons over the mountain on many occasions.

And yet, he still had hope. Why? I could not understand it. The question gnawed relentlessly at my mind and, as it did so, the words of my ancient friend suddenly, abruptly, pierced my heart with a startling sense of clarity.

You were once willing to do the same.

The flagon of ale still clutched in my hand fell to the table with a loud thump. Was I? How long had it been since that time when courage steeled by righteous fury had flooded my veins? My hands began to inadvertently shake as a single tear of shame slid across my face and fell through the edge of my helmet into the cloudy surface of the ale. How had I become so broken?

Without further thought, I flew to my feet, snatching several chits from the pouch at my waist and threw them at the stunned barkeep as I stormed towards the door. I had to know. I had to know what drove this man. I waited impatiently for the bruiser to retrieve my axe and snatched it from his grasp, hurling the door open and striding into the storm without so much as a backward glance. Surrendering myself to the winds and rain, I drew the hood from my cloak over my battered helmet and marched purposefully into the night.

I had to know. Perhaps I could catch even a glimmer of honour and make my friend proud.

One last time.

Chapter 2

Madman

My mismatching helmet often drew the ire of the foolish, for its strange, angular design was entirely at odds with conventional armour. I had garnered all manner of unsavoury names over the years, some of them entirely justified. Junk Knight was one of the less imaginative of the derogatory terms wayfarers muttered when they thought that I was out of earshot, although they had stopped calling me that after I flattened the left-hand side of some miscreant’s face with my gauntlet when he dared to suppose that he should take out the trash. In reality, I barely cared when people referred to me in such an unsavoury manner. Mostly I was happy if I was left alone and if my reputation lent itself to repelling the ignorant wider population, then why would these words actually matter? Wayfarers knew my craft and that I was willing to accept almost any kind of contract if the payment was right, although most would have trouble procuring the particular currency that I sought. I would refuse to be paid with anything less.

I traded my services for relics. I didn’t really care what they did. Half the time the desperate fools that sought my aid didn’t even know. I wasn’t picky. I kept those that served my purposes and stashed the rest. I had my reasons.

The helmet was one such relic. While its appearance was unseemly, it was without a doubt one of my most valued possessions. Slamming the visor down as I stepped out into the gloomy haze of the storm, the world around me immediately sprang into vivid detail.

The helmet allowed me to see clearly in the darkness. I couldn’t even count how many times this particular relic had saved my life after undertaking many, many ill-advised ventures that no sane individual would even dream of entertaining. Following this stranger into the storm was hardly the most fool-hardy thing I had done this week, though it was certainly among the more sobering.

The stranger had a considerable start and, resolved as I was to catch up with him, I drew my cloak around me and made effort to increase my pace. The blinding rain continued to assail the surrounding landscape, however I knew the way to the Valley of Mourning all too well. Undoubtedly, he would be making for the Pass of Altor, which was situated along a steep and yet mostly comfortable trail that all sensible wayfarers used to cross into the realm beyond the Shattered Mountains. The well-worn path was bereft of any vegetation and so few of the Tyrant’s creatures dared to linger across the slopes, although some particularly nimble and cowardly creatures used secret caves or tunnels carved into the mountainside to launch attacks upon the unprepared or foolish. It was a mere three day venture to reach the pass and then an additional two days deviation to complete the descent into the Valley of Mourning. While the weather was typically clear for those pressing through to the Pass of Altor, it always rained on this side of the mountains and that typically put me in a foul mood. Hence, the drinking. Well, that was my excuse anyway.

I realised that my axe was still clutched in the hand that had grabbed it from the bruiser. I awkwardly held my cloak outwards mid-stride and returned the heavy weapon over my shoulder, all the while maintaining my lumbering gait towards the faint outline of the mountain ahead of me. I barely noticed the piercing sting of the rain as it effortless seared through my exposed clothing and armour. With the task now complete, I resumed my pursuit, running as fast as I dared along the road that I assumed the stranger had taken. Back in my prime, I could have chased down a waive at full stride and barely broken a sweat. Nowadays it didn’t take long for fatigue to rear its ugly head and tonight it was mocking my impulsive decision to run headlong into a storm. Within minutes I was grunting with effort and, more concerningly, I felt the tremor of my affliction tingle through the muscles of my legs, prompting a spike of self-pity to surge through me.

Be silent, I snarled at the voice that always sought to taunt me whenever my body betrayed me in this fashion. With a surge of determination, I ignored the normal warning signs and pressed on, although I could not help but note that my pace had inadvertently suffered as a result. I ran through the teeming rain for what seemed to be hours, the grim shape of the mountain range slowly rearing up before me with each and every step.

What am I doing? I thought to myself, very nearly stumbling as my leg almost gave way again. I managed to recover, growling with annoyance as I shook my head in frustration at my own obstinacy. Once, my peers had claimed my single-minded devotion to the cause was a laudable asset. At this precise moment, I could not see how such blind fervour could have ever been identified as a positive attribute, especially if it led me inexorably away from the comfort of shelter.

I ground to a halt, caught in a moment of indecision. My breath was steaming in front of me as I sucked in the frigid air. What am I doing? I glanced back in the direction from which I had come, the den a faint flicker of light on the distant horizon. Quit this madness, part of me argued. Leave the stranger to his foolhardy quest.

But my mind was made. I wasn’t backing down. I had to know.

I looked back to the path before me, staring down the mountain as though it were an old foe. My body released an involuntary shiver as another blast of wind swept across the road. And then, abruptly, my eyes were instinctively scanning for signs of movement as the sheer stupidity of my plight became all-too apparent. Storming a deserted trail in the pitch darkness with no hope of forging a fire? Madness! I hurriedly reached for my axe as a wave of paranoia assailed me, my body tensed and ready for the imagined conflict.

And then I saw him.

I very nearly fell over backwards in shock. It took me several additional seconds to comprehend that it was the stranger in the flesh and not some ghostly apparition. Even then I shook my head several times just to be certain. He was standing at the side of the road, staff held in one hand as though he were out for a leisurely stroll. In the storming rain. And he still wasn’t wearing a cloak! Who is this madman? I thought to myself. I withdrew my hand from the axe and stood out towards him. He was regarding me with a faint sense of amusement.

What are you doing? I demanded before he could say anything. She’s gone. You know she’s gone. Part of me realised that I was bludgeoning the man with my own rationalisations but I pressed on out of my own need to understand. They are too far ahead, you won’t catch them. I paused, staring into the amused expression of the stranger. Clearly my argument wasn’t having the desired effect, I realised with frustration. It was in that moment that I knew he wasn’t going to change his mind, no matter what I said. I ground my teeth in frustration, and, after taking a moment to gather myself, I simply asked, Why?

Because I must try. he replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

I grunted in response, not caring to validate his reckless course of action. At least not yet. A faint grumble of thunder echoed across the blasted slopes of the mountainside. You can’t go alone, I finally muttered, speaking into the lingering silence.

The stranger’s expression hardened. She’s in the hands of strangers, who seek to sacrifice her to an abomination. I would never abandon her to that fate. I will do what I must. His grip upon the staff in his hand tightened and all too suddenly I remembered that this was the man who had sundered a communal table with a single blow of his fist. If I hadn’t checked myself, I would have taken an involuntary step backwards at the rising sense of intensity in his expression.

Instead, I pressed on my with argument, futile as it was. As I said before, you can’t possibly reach them in time. They are four days ahead of you. I pointed to the path and traced an imaginary line up the mountainside to the Pass of Altor. Even if you were able to run the entire way in this storm, you still couldn’t catch them before they reach the Valley of Mourning.

There is another way.

Another way? That was news to me. As someone who had mounted dozens of expeditions or hunted rogue beasts all across this accursed realm, I prided