Fright Knights: Chapter One

Every muscle in Balthasar’s body was as tense as the skin on a dragon’s wing. He shivered as he knocked on the large oak door, which immediately creaked open.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The only light was a sickly, green glow that came from a bubbling, stinking cauldron in the centre of the room. A tall, crooked figure stood with her back to him, peering through the only window at the impenetrable darkness of the night.

‘Your m-majesty,’ stammered Balthasar, ‘We’ve received word. The tower is now in enemy hands. It seems the Fright Knights were not working alone this time; they were joined by the men of the forest.’

The figure remained motionless. Balthasar felt sick. He soldiered on, determined to fill the silence. ‘The only, erm, glad tidings I can offer is that none were slain. All the guards were imprisoned in the cells beneath the tower.’

Long, ochre fingernails tapped on the stone windowsill. A sound was building in the figure’s throat. A wheeze became a low cackle, then a childlike snicker, then a loud, shrill, crowing laugh.

The Queen stopped abruptly and turned. In a flash, she was standing in front of Balthasar, illuminated by the cauldron. Her smile was huge; her great red mouth was an unnatural split in her face, running up her cheeks, almost to her ears. Her one remaining tooth was long and rotten. Her eyes were black and empty. Balthasar recoiled slightly, despite himself.

‘Oooh, thank heavens the guards are alright!’ she laughed, mockingly. She casually lay a bony finger on Balthasar’s shoulder, and he died instantly. Someone would come by in her absence to dispose of the corpse. She stepped nonchalantly out of the window, onto an oily, scaly back, and gripped the long spines protruding from the creature's shoulders. The dragon lifted his large, green head and sprung from the ledge. His wings unfolded and they swooped upwards into the cold, starless sky.

The great wizard Majisto strode down a white stone corridor, then suddenly halted. He could hear movement in the assembly chamber up ahead. The Clouded Ridge was a small mountain fortress unknown to mortal men, but someone had found their way in.

Majisto raised his staff and crept towards the open archway. The room was styled after an amphitheatre, but all the seats were covered in dust. A lone, dark figure stood gazing into the crystal ball at the heart of the room. Sensing his approach, it turned and fired a beam of crimson energy at him. Majisto ducked just in time; the archway exploded into pearlescent powder, which settled harmlessly on the brim of his hat. The wizard tensed for another attack but none came.

'Is that you, Majisto?' said an amused voice from amid the debris.

'Oh, its you, Mallock,' he replied, 'Good morrow, cousin.'

Majisto dusted himself down and joined his fellow wizard at the crystal ball. Mallock's appearance was atypical amongst wizards, who usually wore scruffy blue robes which they replaced every hundred years or so. He wore vesture of deep burgundy and a cape with a high collar, both emblazoned with a fire motif. A shining golden skull adorned his belt buckle and behind his long, smooth black beard, his eyes burned a bright and piercing red. A hazy scene of future destruction and chaos was unfolding within the crystal ball; Mallock seemed to be enjoying the show.

'So, I hear Batlord has finally made his move,' he purred, 'Your influence, I assume?'

Majisto grimaced. 'His methods are precise but barbaric. I thought it your handiwork.'

Mallock sniggered at this. They stood watching in silence awhile, one horrified, one exultant. Eventually, Majisto's mind was made up. He said solemnly, 'Batlord's rash actions bear ill for us all, even you. It may already be too late for us to interfere. Where is he now?'

The winter wind whipped across the plain, causing Merek’s eyes to water. His body ached from sitting in the same position too long. His only movement came when he occasionally lifted a hand to lash at the horses. He had a schedule to keep to, and whipping the poor beasts gave him a strange pleasure. This disposition was common in his line of work. Either side of the carriage galloped the horses of the equally sadistic guards Terrin and Tristan. Both wore big, bloody spurs, and carried pikes which they’d used to usher their quarry into the cage on the back of the carriage. Merek glanced back through the bars at the pathetic prisoner behind him, and something caught his eye.

A lone rider was coming up the track behind them at great speed, a cloud of dust kicked up in his wake. You didn’t get many people out here travelling on their own. Merek supposed it must be a messenger, and the message must have been very important. Bandits rarely worked alone, but just in case he’d missed something, Merek waved to Terrin and Tristan and pointed to the rider gaining on them. They dropped back dutifully, to defend the rear of the carriage. As they did so, Merek caught the prisoner glancing back and smiling to himself.

Terrin and Tristan were only yards from the stranger. Now that he was closer, Merek could make out his appearance; he looked like no messenger he had ever seen. His fearsome black steed wore a red caparison, as if on its way to a jousting tourney. The man himself was dressed in a rich, red tunic and wore a long grey cloak, which flapped out behind him. His face was covered by a black helmet adorned with moulded bat wings.

The two guards were shouting at him, but their words were lost on the wind. They each turned in their saddles and aimed their pikes at the mysterious knight. They threw them simultaneously; the man drew his sword and deflected them both with a single swing. They lay uselessly in the dirt behind him as he galloped on, drawing level with the guards. Tristan drew a small crossbow and fired an arrow into the stranger’s horse, which whinnied in pain. Merek grinned; that would slow him down.

The stranger reached beneath the horse’s coat and drew out a long, red staff. It glinted in the weak sun like stained glass, casting a scarlet shadow on the dusty track. The man pointed it at Tristan and it began to glow. Suddenly, a ball of red light burst from the staff and struck Tristan in the side. He was blasted clean off his horse and landed hard on the ground, no doubt breaking several bones. Merek felt his stomach twist in terror. He knew Terrin must feel the same; the guard was standing up, riding his horse hard in pursuit of the carriage, desperately trying to get away from the relentless wizard-knight. The man put the staff away, and leapt like a wolf onto Terrin’s horse, brutally clawing at him and tearing him from the saddle. He fell into the dirt, blood streaming from his wounded face. Behind Merek, the prisoner laughed and clapped his withered hands.

Merek sobbed with fear. There were no settlements for miles. If he dived from the carriage at this speed, he‘d be too injured to drag himself to shelter and the nearest healer. If he slowed down, the creature in the black helmet would attack him. He fumbled for his crossbow, and turned the wheel, pulling back the string. He placed a bolt in the slot and took aim. Tristan’s horse and the stranger’s injured mount had fallen far behind; the man had ridden Terrin’s horse the rest of the way and was only a yard or so from the carriage now. Merek pulled the trigger and the bolt hit the ground just off to the left of the knight. Whimpering, he grabbed another bolt and slid it home. Steadying his shaking hands, Merek looked down the sight and fired again. The man flinched, hoping to avoid the shot but it wasn’t enough. The bolt hit Terrin’s horse square in the eye. It shrieked and fell forwards, as the man leapt into the air, his long, pale hands grasping for the back of the carriage.

He missed by inches and landed jarringly on his hands and knees. Merek didn’t slow down. He needed to get out of range of the wizard’s staff, or any other weapons the creature was carrying. He thrashed the horses hard and risked a glance over his shoulder. The man was standing, apparently unhurt but powerless in the middle of the dirt track, receding into the distance behind him. Merek grinned and wiped his brow. The prisoner was very still, staring between the bars at his would-be saviour.

‘Someone up there likes me,’ Merek called back to him.

‘I wouldn't count on it,’ the prisoner murmured.

Merek’s eyes flicked back to the dirt track. The man had disappeared. WHUMP! There was a great sound and a gust of wind nearly blew Merek from his seat. Another WHUMP! He looked up to see the knight sitting astride an enormous, black dragon. At a word from the man, the dragon swooped down and sunk its claws into the carriage. For Merek, the world spun dizzyingly, the wood beneath him splintered and he tasted blood before everything went black.

'Thank you,' said the old prisoner, crawling from the wreckage. The dragon stood calmly cleaning its claws in the middle of the dusty track. He squinted up at the fearsome knight on its back.

'I'm Percival of Gnurnfar.' said the prisoner, tugging his forelock, 'You're the Batlord, aren't you?'

'I am.' The man's voice was deep and strange; he must have originally come from the West.

Percival nodded to himself, trying to digest the unusual circumstances of his escape. The Batlord sat still, holding the reins encircling the dragon's throat. In his helmet, it was impossible to tell where he was looking, or what he was thinking.

'I have nothing to offer you in return,' said Percival, 'I am unfit to join your Fright Knights, but I will serve you, if I can.'

The Batlord was silent for a moment. 'Your life is your own,' he said eventually, 'But you will have a place among us if that is your wish.'

A moment later, Percival was climbing awkwardly onto the dragon's back, and wondering if he'd done the right thing.