Genuine Myth

By Silence Leaflin

It has been nearly two years since Rayden’s Circle. Now Tannor Fitzgerald is embarking on a quest of a different sort. No longer searching for the world’s magic, Tannor wishes to expose myths for what they are. In this sequel to Genuine Magic, he is drawn away from his family to investigate the Blood Knight of the Godswalk, a figure so frightening to the common folk that the very mention of him causes widespread panic. Undaunted by tales of evil, Tannor is certain the Blood Knight is merely a myth. A myth capable of being unraveled and demystified. But when he meets Roland, a secretive man claiming to be the Knight’s tax collector, everything changes. What connection does this man have to Aileran’s gentle race of magic-wielders and the sinister Blood Knight? Who is the Blood Knight, really? Roland seems reluctant to give Tannor the answers he craves, but tenacity has always been Tannor’s greatest strength. Determined, Tannor struggles to befriend Roland, hoping to discover the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312459021

Book preview

Genuine Myth

Genuine Myth

Copyright © 2014 Silence Leaflin

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-312-45902-1

Chapter 1

And so it is that I, Tannor Fitzgerald, am on the road once more. I told myself after Aileran’s death that I had found all the magic I needed to find in the world, and to myself I did not lie. However, I came to realize that as strongly as I felt about uncovering the world’s magic, I felt equally as strong about exposing its hoaxes. There was no worse crime by my standards than taking advantage of one’s fellow man with a lie. Whether meant in jest, said to ignite fear, or perpetuated blindly through the generations in stories told by old crones, myths were only slightly fancier than hoaxes, and hoaxes were all lies. Never in my life had I encountered a genuine myth… that is, one founded in fact at one time or another. More often than not, myths were made grander and more unbelievable the longer they were told. Of all the ridiculous ones I had heard, not a one had made a single lick of sense.

The worry in Marguerite’s eyes concerned me, but I knew I would be home soon. I waited until after my daughter’s first birthday, spending the day with her bubbly self and my breathtaking wife and setting out in the morning. I rode in search of the fabled Blood Knight of the Godswalk, the latter being a mountain pass northeast of Rayden’s Circle. I had a mind to visit Aileran along the way to pay my respects and then continue on to the northernmost town of Gormlock. It was the last town before the Dragon’s Back mountain range and the Fallorean northern border. It was also supposedly terrorized by this laughable and obviously imaginary Blood Knight. The people there were hassled day and night by this fabled being, in fact. As the Knight’s body count rose, I sought to put an end to this farce of a myth. There was no Blood Knight. Of that, I was certain. I would prove his inexistence and be home within the month.

Austin had nobly offered to accompany me for protection purposes, but I kindly refused his assistance. Emiline was eight months along, expecting their first child. While her pregnancy had thus far been uneventful save for a pair of sore and swollen feet, this was still not a time to leave her without her husband, I said. Should the weather or other circumstances keep us away for longer than a month, he was liable to miss his child’s birth. That, I said to him, was something I absolutely did not want on my conscience. There would be main roads enough for me to join up with others traveling in my direction until I reached Rayden’s Circle. From there it was only half a day’s ride to Gormlock. Surely I could handle half a day’s ride by myself. And of course, there was no Blood Knight to fear, day or night. I was entirely certain of that.

Austin had been faring well at the university. He was far smarter than he seemed or ever realized himself. Underneath Austin’s jovial and jesting exterior was a little boy who remembered being teased by his more learned friends. His parents had never been able to afford any sort of education for him beyond how to tend chickens and horses. Until he began studying at my university, Austin had truly thought himself a stupid and intellectually clumsy oaf. He was quite the opposite, in fact. He had already mastered several concepts of advanced mathematics and physics while studying geography, history, and literature. All this, he accomplished having only been there a few months shy of two years. That was extraordinary. No one expected a former conscript as young as Austin, and one with such proven technique with a sword, to also have a decently functional brain as well. Austin soaked up knowledge with as much enthusiasm and as quickly as dry earth soaked up rain. The problem was… he had no idea what he wanted to do with any of it.

In the meantime, while he awaited the birth of his child and enjoyed his life with Emiline, I was content to let him take any classes he wished through my sponsorship in exchange for simple enough work on the side. He helped tend the horses and had even started his own training class for those who endeavored to learn the sword. I let him find his own way and contribute however he felt he would make the most difference. Last month, I was commended by our elder archivist for bringing Austin to the university. Austin had introduced humor and perhaps some much needed physical exercise to the scholars there while still managing to add significantly to the intellectual atmosphere. I was proud of him. Moreover, I was happy to see his self-confidence growing day by day.

He saw me off, as did Marguerite and my daughter, just before sunrise. I congratulated Austin in advance, just in case I did not make it back before Emiline gave birth. He smiled so shyly then. He greatly desired a son or daughter. I had seen him reduced to a crying, sniffling mess the day Emiline told him she was with child. He simply could not wait to be a father. When my daughter was born, I could see the friendly jealousy in his eyes. Secretly, I prayed for Emiline to give Austin a boy. Not that he would not love a daughter just as much, but a son could be taught the ways of the sword and even how to ride at a young age. That would be heaven for him. Although, Austin would probably argue that a girl could learn these skills as well as any boy.

It was difficult to leave Marguerite behind. She made no comments about me being a poor husband or a neglectful father, but that was exactly how I felt. No, all her discontent with regard to my leaving stemmed from her worry that I would meet some untimely and unfortunate end on the road and she would never see me again. My dear Margy, I said, if I did not meet my end at the hands of Ronan two years past, then I am most definitely a lucky enough man to survive this journey as well. Perhaps I am even worthy of a guardian angel watching over me. Austin laughed at that, agreed, and said the angel’s name was Aileran.

For the journey, I took with me a fine mare carrying two satchels’ worth of supplies. I joined up with a caravan just outside my home city. Armed with my trusty ledger of notes, I jotted down all the tidbits, hearsay, and conjecture regarding this Blood Knight that my traveling companions cared to share with me. I was fortunate to ride with a man, his wife, three young children, brother and cousin for the first stretch. They were all very vocal about the Blood Knight, having heard about him from a relative who had once lived in Gormlock. He was an evil and ethereal thing, with crimson, glowing eyes and armor so red and shiny it looked as though it was made of liquid blood. He came and went in an ephemeral and mysterious manner, and once he was upon you, it was too late to do anything about it. I asked if his choice of armor was the reason for his overly clichéd name, but they replied to the contrary. He was called the Blood Knight because of his insatiable love of blood. He loved to see it, spill it, and even drink it. As the trip wore on, day by day, the applications and indulgences for blood that the Blood Knight engaged in became more numerous and decidedly more absurd.

I left that delightful family in the sleepy village of Willow Farms and joined up with two battle-ready men who were also heading north. They were brothers – twins, no less – named Farley and Charley. They were a quiet pair, all told, until they had some ale in them. When we all stopped at an inn at the next town up the road from Willow Farms, they too were eager to spread rumors about the Blood Knight. He was a lord! No, a knight! No, a king, even! Yes, and he had been horribly wronged and wanted revenge. No, not only that, but he had been killed and now he sought to take from others that of which he had been robbed. They murdered him high up there in the mountains, on the Godswalk, but – wait, now, that is not all! – they did not merely kill him. They gutted the poor man and left him for the crows. No, silly! They did not leave him for the crows, they threw him over the side of the cliff and his skull was smashed against the rocks.

It was all I could do not to get a crick in my neck from looking back and forth at these two characters as they fought with themselves over what had actually happened to the man, ghost, demon, or nebulous symbol of evil that was the Blood Knight. Dizzying, it was… truly dizzying. They did agree on one thing, however. Those who sought the Blood Knight always found him, and did not live to tell the tale! I rolled my eyes involuntarily from the horribly clichéd sound of it all.

It was good for a lark, though, to listen to them rattle on. I will say that I was definitely amused by all this and dutifully recorded all that I heard in my research volume. It was not until I reached the town of Rayden’s Run, named for the same man as the Circle where Aileran was buried, that I began to get to the root of this preposterous myth. It was the last town before the Circle and before Gormlock, and so I spent a full day and night there, hoping to glean as much information as I could from it before heading towards the myth’s home town.

The Blood Knight was not a knight at all. He was a minor lord who had been disowned by his family for violent and dishonorable practices. Refusing to give up his pampered noble lifestyle, he slowly amassed a host of peasants and craftsmen to populate the castle he would build high up at the very top of the Godswalk. He threatened them, beat them, promised pain and suffering would rain down upon them if they did not dedicate their lives to him. And so, just a few years after losing his lands and title, this minor lord had created his own dominion at the top of the mountain. Having done that, he shut himself off from the world.

But that did not mean he did not still pose a threat to those who lived in the valley. No one who had gone up the mountain ever returned alive, which I assumed was more due to the staggering height, disorienting thin air, and the savage local wildlife more so than the wrath of any Blood Knight. However, the inhabitants of the Stone Bear Inn insisted that this strange hermit of a lord killed anyone who tried to enter his keep.

In addition to that, he imposed a steep tax on the people of Gormlock, soliciting food, various drinks, plants, seeds, tools, anything that might be useful to the average working man. But, he never asked for coin. Is that not odd, I asked them? No, of course not, they replied. He lives high on the mountain where there is nothing and no one but himself and his servants. What need has he for coin? What need has he for the materials you just mentioned, I countered? They are probably to feed and outfit his servants, they replied. Ah, but the Blood Knight did not seem the humanitarian type.

Yes, it seemed that now I had a direct link. There was a tax. A tangible, measureable tax. Surely this tax either existed outright or it did not, and if it did, there would be a record of it. Splendid, I said, and upon hearing this information, I packed my things and set out immediately. I was close now, I could taste it. Close to the end, that is, and not to the Blood Knight. I would go to Gormlock and find that this mysterious tax did not exist. Or, if it did, I would find that it was not at all as it appeared. Then I would turn around and start on my way home. But first, I had a mind to visit Aileran, as I am certain I mentioned earlier.

It was a week since I had set out and it was pouring rain by the time I reached the Circle. I would have found the cold, wet, windy conditions to be utterly horrid had I not suffered a bout of the giggles. You see, upon arriving at Aileran’s grave, I realized that a tree had grown there. It was as tall as I was and it had exactly sixteen leaves. Yes, I counted them. I have an eye for detail. Well, it is more like a compulsion, I suppose. Nevertheless, I laughed out loud, the rain dampening the sound, as I sat down on the ground, still holding the reins of my poor, soaked horse.

How is it that I met you on a rainy night and now I’ve come to pay my respects in the rain as well? I asked Aileran. The least you could have done is to make this tree grow faster so as to provide me with a bit more shelter from this storm.

I had a good laugh over that, but it was not long before my smile faded. I became acutely aware of the rain soaking me through to my smallclothes and the drops of water that dangled from my hair and nose. It was cold, I was miserable, and I missed Aileran terribly. I let him know that latter part.

I told him all about Cecily and his son. No doubt she had told him all of this already, but I suddenly could not keep from running at the mouth. The boy was walking, talking, and giving his mother trouble left and right, just as any perfect little boy should. He was a handsome child, with Aileran’s dark hair, bronze skin, and his exotic, pale blue eyes. He had none of Cecily’s fair coloring at all or any of the green she had in her eyes. She preferred it that way, I shared. She had told me that it filled her with such happiness that her son looked so much like his father. He would be sought after by the ladies when he was older, I surmised, especially with those eyes of his and his fine smile.

Cecily had shared something else with me in her letters and I had seen it for myself upon my visit to the house of the former servant she was currently staying with. Young Aileran had a strange habit that Cecily innocently hoped was connected to some sort of magical ability the boy was developing. He pondered things with an attention and concentration far beyond his years. He would be playing, happy and carefree as any child about to reach two years of age should, and then all of a sudden he would stop. His little bottom would hit the floor as he sat to observe something, whether it was an object he could reach out and touch or a person who had walked in the room. Mouth slightly open and eyes not blinking in the slightest, he stared at whatever had transfixed him, deep in thought. To this day, neither of us could figure out what the boy was thinking when he behaved thusly.

Of late, Cecily had been encouraging young Aileran to voice whatever it was that was commanding his interest, for all manner of speech and communication ceased once he became obsessed with something. He simply had to mull over it and think it through on his own, and eventually his interest would wane. If she tried to ask him what it was that had interested him, he would either ignore her or point at the person or object. When Cecily identified whatever or whoever he had pointed to with a name or a word, his little brow furrowed as though he disagreed or was left unsatisfied with the name. But it was this confusion that she was most intrigued by. What was he thinking? For now, it remained a mystery.

I knew that Aileran’s healing abilities were not the only powers his people could manifest. Austin mentioned a fellow soldier who could hear perfectly over extraordinary distances. Some of them knew things that would happen before they did. Still others could evoke emotion with their voices or instrumental music. Who knew, at this early stage, what young Aileran was experiencing. Perhaps he would manifest a power later in life that was only now beginning to show itself in the recesses of his immature and undeveloped mind, but he simply did not understand what it meant. In all other ways, the boy was healthy and happy, and so Cecily continued to hold out amazing hope that he would be a conjurer just like his father.

Changing the subject now, I asked Aileran if he remembered my mention of Marguerite. Our courtship had progressed wonderfully well and we had more in common than we had ever realized. It was only a few short months after I had begun seeing her officially that I performed perhaps the worst blunder any man ever had as far as proposing to a woman. After lying awake for most of the night, unable to sleep for thinking of nothing but her, I burst from my quarters and up to hers. Disheveled and in naught but my meager nightclothes, I knocked upon the door, bringing her to it. I had no ring yet, for this was all very spontaneous, but I could not spend another night mulling over who I wanted to spend my life with. There was only one choice for me, and if she would not have me, well… I feared I would never sleep soundly again. I told her as much. All of it. She laughed at me then, but not cruelly. She was genuinely touched.

I will marry you, Tannor Fitzgerald, she said with the coy air of a woman in control, on one condition.

Anything, I said, quite seriously.

Come inside and spend the night, she said, a bit more shyly now.

Of course, I told Aileran, I politely refused, citing her honor. I would not touch her until we were properly married, as was my duty as a good and decent fellow. So that was precisely why I woke up the next morning by her side and in her bed. She can be very persuasive when she wants to be, I said to him. We were married a few days later and have been a very happy couple since then. Except that now we were no longer merely a couple. Our daughter, Daisy, named for Marguerite’s favorite flower, had just celebrated her first birthday. Marguerite was already attempting to talk me into having a second child. I was not completely averse to the idea, I admitted. Daisy was such a beautiful child. A second boy or girl might require a lot more effort, but it would also be delightful as well.

I could barely bring myself to leave Aileran’s grave. I longed to hear his voice, to see him, having felt that there was so much more I could have learned from him. But a painful realization occurred to me that helped me mount my horse and say my goodbyes to him finally. As much pain as I was feeling, Cecily’s must be ten times worse. Who was I to miss him so acutely when she probably ached for him every night when she lay down to sleep alone and his son had never even seen his face? Respectfully nodding to the patch of earth that was his grave, I bid Aileran goodbye, but only for now. I would be back again to visit him another day, surely.

Horseshoes and buckets, as Austin would say. No one really understood what he meant by that and yet it had been collectively adopted by many of the scholars at the university to describe general bad luck and discomfort. That was the best way to describe my ride to Gormlock. It was dark and the rain was pelting me from every angle. But I rode steadily against the wind all through the night, hoping for a warm, dry room at an inn to dry my clothes and warm my soul. I was not disappointed.

Morning at Gormlock was exquisite indeed. The rain had stopped but the sky was still cloudy, leaving the air moist and thick for want of the sun’s drying rays. A rolling fog moved as if alive, caressing the valley and the gravel roads of the town. Trees in the distance appeared to be faded, very nearly disappearing against the misty grayness. They stood, tall and silent, like watchful sentinels. With the haze covering the houses as well and granting everything a surreal and otherworldly aspect, the scenery looked as if it had been part of a melancholy painter’s best work.

All the gloom and doom I was expecting based upon various accounts from other travelers was, in fact, only gloomy because of the weather. From what I could ascertain there was no doom to be had. The people were perhaps living life at a slower pace than the denizens of my home city, but they were happy enough. Children played in the roads, dogs and cats roamed freely, and there was the constant sound – and smell – of livestock. Wheat and barley farms surrounded the town, with this year’s crop swaying in the winds but thankfully unaffected by the night’s rains. A healthy sheen of raindrops stuck to the crops, causing them to glisten even in the misty light of the morning. Exhausted and thoroughly soaked still, I purchased a room at the Laughing Tankard Inn, a place not nearly as boisterous and entertaining as the name might have suggested.

The rooms were spacious enough, but there were not that many of them. Gormlock was a sleepy place with a town hall made of crumbling stone and thatched-roof cottages lining the roads. The inn itself was made of large blocks of interlocking stone and rough mortar, wooden doors and window casements, and a flat roof. It was all very quaint, but all I cared about was the bed in my room. It was perhaps a bit lumpy, but otherwise comfortable enough. After spending only a short moment pondering Marguerite and Daisy, exhaustion took over and I fell fast asleep.

Chapter 2

I slept soundly until around noon. After having a late but relaxing breakfast of bread and eggs, I got right to work. I was eager to write the Blood Knight myth off as a drunkard’s pastime or a child’s fancy. By nightfall, I intended to be back on the road in the direction of home. I sat at my table for quite some time, making a mug of ale last as long as it would before I ordered another.

There were a number of people here on this particular day. On opposite sides of the room, seeking the darkness like city rats, were two armed men. One simply stared at his own hands in his lap, looking one step away from falling asleep, while the other stared at the first.