A Trilogy of Knights Read online

  THE KNIGHT AND…

  THE DRAGON

  Bran is tired of living a life of blood and violence. After decades of serving his king on the battlefield, he wants the peaceful, violence-free life he has earned. When the king refuses to grant him freedom, Bran volunteers to go slay a deadly dragon—with every intention of dying alongside it.

  THE STATUE

  Trey has always kept to himself, so solitary and strange he is named after the mist-filled valley where he was found as a child. But he longs for things he cannot have – like Dunstan, a beautiful, young mage far out of reach. Then he learns Dunstan's family is being tormented by mercenaries, and Dunstan himself turned to stone—and Trey and his strange past are their only hope for rescue.

  THE PRINCE

  All Victor wants is to be taken seriously by his so-called peers, who constantly bully him for his fussy ways and his close relationship to the throne. Then he rescues a foreign prince being chased by assassins, and finds himself swept into a strange world that feels more like home than anywhere he's ever been…

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  These stories are some of my oldest works, and their age shows. But I remain proud of them, because without stories like these I would never have been able to write the stories I do now, like High King and Dragon Magic and so many others.

  I publish them mostly for the convenience of the readers who still love them, who have followed me since I wrote them, believing in the writer I have become, and the writer I still hope to be. Thank you for believing in me.

  A Trilogy of Knights

  By Megan Derr

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  Second Edition May 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Megan Derr

  Printed in the United States of America

  A Trilogy of

  Knights

  Megan Derr

  The Knight and the Dragon

  Bran stared grimly down at the body of his squire. The young man, little more than a boy really, was face down in the blood and mud of the battlefield, an arrow lodged in his neck. Bran knelt, yanked the arrow out, and turned the dead boy over. Green eyes stared sightlessly back up at him, and with a rough sound Bran rose and turned away.

  He signaled two of his knights and motioned to the boy. "He should have been in camp. Why was he here?"

  "I do not know, my lord," the first knight replied.

  "What about you?" Bran asked, turning to the second knight.

  The second knight shook his head, equally as befuddled as the first. Like Bran, they were sweaty, bloody, and exhausted from the recent battle. "I can only guess, Captain, that he disobeyed orders in order to come and help you. You know Albert doted on you."

  "See to him." From his belt Bran pulled a long dagger; he set it on the Albert's chest. Spinning on his heel, muddy cape flowing behind him, Bran strode away to see to the rest of his knights and work out the problems that always arrived with battle's end.

  Bran mounted his horse a few hours later, the moon shining brightly in the sky, a cold bite in the air. Around him, his men wearily did the same. Forcing away his exhaustion, Bran turned his horse and spurred it forward. Behind him his second-in-command called orders and encouragement.

  It was a night's journey back to the castle. He'd prefer to rest and leave in the morning, but if they remained where they were, it was unlikely they'd live to see the sunrise. The recent battle had been costly enough. Bran closed his eyes briefly, the pain of Albert's death washing over him. The boy had reached his fourteenth summer only a few months ago and had been made squire at the celebration. Dead now, never to be a knight as he had always dreamed.

  Bran was tired of it. Nearly forty-five and involved in the knights since his own fourteenth year. Death after death after death. Too many years, too many battles. Albert was the last blow. He was done.

  Now all he had to do was tell the king that.

  Six hours passed in a blur of exhausted misery for Bran and his knights; only thoughts of bed and food kept them going, underscored with fear of another battle. But pass the hours did, just as the faintest shreds of light began to appear on the horizon. A call to the guards and the gates rose, the sound of grinding metal and wood painfully loud in the dark, still morning.

  They thundered across the bridge, the gate slamming down behind them. The knights dismounted, handing their horses over to hastily woken servants, and strode into the keep. Bran dismissed them, managing a smile at their quiet but enthusiastic cries of gratitude. He turned and made his way to his chambers, letting out a happy sigh at the sight of the fire already lit and plenty of food on the table.

  His pain eased some, taking in the familiar tapestries and furs that decorated his room, the sword and shield of his father on the wall. There was a knock at the door. "Enter."

  A short servant bowed as he entered, "My lord, we thought you would like a bath and had the water heated."

  "My thanks."

  "Of course, my lord." The servant bowed again and called the other servants to bring the tub and heated water. In short order they had all prepared. "Where is Albert? Shall we summon him to assist you?"

  "Albert is dead, shot by an arrow. I will be fine alone."

  "As you wish." The servants bowed and exited.

  Bran began the slow process of removing his armor. It was hard enough with assistance, all but impossible alone, but the thought of someone so quickly replacing Albert turned his stomach.

  Thankfully the water was still plenty warm when he sank into it. He slowly scrubbed away the filth and blood acquired on their hunt for bandits and rebels.

  He rose from the water only when it had cooled to the point of being uncomfortable. Running his fingers through his reddish-brown hair, he considered calling someone to trim it, and then decided against it. It trailed only just to his neck and was therefore not a problem yet. Besides, he would not be going to battle again for a long while. Assuming the king accepted his resignation, he may soon be able to stop worrying about the length of his hair entirely.

  In a sleepy daze, he ate the meal that had been set out for him, then half-walked, half-stumbled to his bed. Pulling the linens and heavy furs up, he was asleep in the next breath.

  *~*~*

  A pounding at his door woke him, and Bran blinked blearily at the sunlight pouring through the one small window—someone had pulled aside the tapestry he usually draped across it. The pounding continued, and he shouted a garbled "Enter!" as he threw back his furs and clambered from his bed.

  He barely noticed the early morning chill, throwing on one of his good tunics made from green velvet, the king's coat-of-arms on the front. A servant bowed and greeted him, "Lord Bran, His Majesty commands your presence immediately."

  "I will be there once I am dressed."

  "Yes, my lord. I shall tell him." The servant was gone.

  Pulling on his high black leather boots and raking his hair into some semblance of order, Bran completed his attire with leather bracers for his arms, over the heavy undershirt, and his sword belt and blade. As an afterthought, he added two daggers—one for his boot, one for his waist.

  He nodded greetings to knights and lords as he passed them but did not slow.

  The throne room was as sparsely decorated as the rest of the castle, only the richness of the tapestries and the extra furs on the floor marking it as a special room—that and the presence of the king himself.

  Bran dropped to one kne
e and bowed his head, one arm across his bent knee, the other braced against the floor for balance. "Your Majesty."

  "Sir Bran of Trenton. I see you have survived yet again. Your legend grows and grows. Have you a report for me?"

  "Majesty," Bran did not look up, "we have killed many of the bandits on the border. Last night on our journey home, we were ambushed by a band from the North. We defeated them, took the head of their leader, but it is my belief that we will see them again—and with increasing frequency."

  "Why do you say that?" The king sat straighter in the wide chair that served as a throne in his winter castle. Velvet and wool stretched across his wide girth, the gold trim bright in the dim chamber.

  "They attacked us with familiarity—they knew we would be there. If we had lingered, I have no doubt more bandits would have fallen upon us."

  "What would you recommend?" the king asked. "The North Kingdom cannot—or will not—control its own. We have not been able to do any better."

  "I know not, Majesty. But to spare the lives of your men, I would suggest a ceasing of the bandit hunts. At least until we have a better understanding of them."

  "I will consider it. You have done well, Sir Bran of Trenton." The king stroked his beard again. "I hear you lost another squire. Would you like me to select a new one for you?"

  "Nay, Majesty." Bran's head was still bowed, but the pain in his voice was unmistakable. "I will not carry another boy to his death."

  "If the boy dies, then he is too soft. You know that."

  Bran refrained from comment.

  "You have something to say, Trenton. Speak your mind."

  "My Liege…you have knights aplenty. I have trained plenty of people who could take my place. You want for nothing, insofar as your army is concerned. I have served you faithfully thirty-one years. I grow weary of watching comrades and children die before my eyes. I beg you to release me."

  The king frowned. "I am not so well off that I can afford to lose the best knight in my ranks. Especially when trouble from the North worsens with each passing day. You should know that."

  "Of course, Majesty." Bran stared unseeing at the floor.

  A frenetic pounding at the heavy double doors interrupted whatever the king had been about to say, and with a frown he motioned to one of the guards to open them.

  A messenger came tumbling through them, panting heavily. He fell to one knee beside Bran. "Majesty…a dragon…" he paused, gasping for breath, and after several minutes continued. "A dragon has been sighted, two days journey from here, high in the Black Hills."

  "A dragon?" For a single moment, the king looked genuinely afraid, before his composure slid back into place.

  Bran looked up at the king. "Allow me to see to it."

  "I am not wasting a knight as valuable as you on a dragon."

  "Majesty, with all due respect, you can either send me now or send several less experienced men before finally giving in and sending me. "

  "Bold, Sir Bran. Very bold. But true. I will admit my error. Go then. We will talk more of your freedom when you return. I cannot give it now, but perhaps in five more years I can grant what you desire."

  "As you wish, Majesty." Bowing his head again, Bran rose smoothly to his feet and turning neatly around, strode from the throne room. The messenger followed him out, sharing details of the dragon before running off to inform the town that help was on the way.

  Bran strode morosely toward his chambers. He had known the king would never set him free…but he had still hoped, and thereby set himself up for hard disappointment.

  Five more years…there was far too much that could happen in five years. Every battle he fought was another battle that could kill him, and that was just one of the many ways a knight could die. There was no guarantee he would survive to enjoy his freedom.

  But that made him wonder what he would do with freedom. He had a castle, lands…gifts from a king that he never was permitted to enjoy. He was a warrior, born and bred. What knew he of the life of a lord? There was also that he would likely be expected to marry, and he had no desire for such things. Especially since they'd expected him to wed a woman, and while he enjoyed women occasionally, his greater preference had always been for men—and he had no desire for children, not after all the children he'd already seen die. Such a thing happening to his own would break him.

  A companion would not be so bad though, someone he would not have to fret over in battle, someone he could truly call friend without fearing they would die on the morrow or were only using him to garner favor. But the king had commanded him to remain five years more in his service, so it was doubtful he would ever get even that.

  Better to let a dragon kill him now than enjoy this misery for another five long years. It was not what he wanted, not in the slightest, but at least this way he still had some choice in the matter.

  He would kill the dragon and be brought down with it.

  The best way to fight a dragon was the wrong way. No armor, no warhorse, nothing save a sword. All else weighed you down, and armor was little more than oven and casket, when the dragon, in desperation, resorted to his fiery breath. And horses, no matter how brave or hardened to battle, could not stand to be anywhere near a dragon. Probably because horses and cattle were favorite foods.

  Stripping off his good tunic, Bran replaced it with a worn black one. This one was shorter, stopping midway down his thighs. The sleeves were short, to accommodate him when the weather was hot. Currently, however, it was very cold, and so he left his wool undershirt on. Next went light armor—also black, simple. A jerkin to go over what he already wore, heavier leather for bracers, and his good sword belt rather than his dress one. His sword, a few daggers, and his travel pack.

  He glanced around his room, lingering on those few things he had thought worth keeping. There seemed little point in carrying them with him. If they were here, they could go to others when he perished. Without a backward glance, he turned and left.

  His horse was waiting for him in the main courtyard, a massive and proud black stallion, built to wear armor and carry a fully armored knight. A warhorse beyond compare. Crush, Bran had named him, for at that he most certainly excelled.

  To his knights he bid a fond farewell, light and laughing because they thought he would be back. He had neither the heart nor method to tell them otherwise.

  *~*~*

  The villagers made him smile. It was hard to remain despondent when so many people were so happy to see a perfect stranger when more often than not strangers were a bad thing. They were weary and dirty, and no doubt hungry after working the fields and shops all day, but nearly the entire town had turned out to greet him and offer him room and board.

  Moreover, they knew his name. Apparently the messenger had known who he was.

  "Lord Trenton!"

  "Noble Knight!"

  "Sir Trenton!"

  His horse was unaffected by the near-stampede of people, standing unruffled in the midst of them. Bran waved them all to silence. "Your kindness humbles me, gentle people. Truly, I appreciate your offers, but rather than linger in your pleasant company, I would continue on toward the dragon. I look forward to lingering here with you upon my victory." He could see they were disappointed, despite the pleasure they must have felt at knowing the dragon would soon be dead. "Perhaps you have some food to accommodate a traveler?"

  This was met with enthusiastic nods and scrambles for the appropriate foodstuffs. Before long Bran, found himself over-laden with meat pies, jerky, dried fruit, and even a couple rounds of cheese. "I thank you. Now tell me what would be the best route through the Black Hills to the dragon's lair?"

  In short order Bran was on his way, an extra pack added to his saddlebags, stuffed with food and even a skin of wine.

  At the castle, by now they would be carrying out the funerals for the fallen knights, and Albert's parents would be mourning. They would not even care that Bran was absent, so accepting were they of the ways of knights, bound eternally by
duty and obedience.

  He wished his thoughts were still so noble. But his eyes had long ago ceased to see everything as perfect and golden. His obedience belonged to his king, but he chafed under it. He had earned his freedom, the chance to enjoy the prizes gained over a lifetime of service.

  The Black Hills loomed, drawing him from his thoughts. They were called thus because they were so thick with forest, only the scantest sun broke through to shed light on the forest floor. He left Crush at the edge of it, as already the horse was showing signs of fear. But it also meant the dragon was not too far off.

  How strange, to realize that he would be dead soon. Never, in all his imaginings, had he thought he would end his days in this manner. But it was better than continuing to serve a king who cared nothing for the man who'd given him thirty years of service, only that he give thirty more.

  Bidding Crush a fond and reluctant farewell, Bran left him to his grazing. Hopefully whoever claimed him next would be good to him. Turning resolutely away, Bran vanished into the dark forest.

  It was eerily silent beneath the thick canopy of trees, the dark periodically broken by patches of white-yellow light. Every now and again a bird would chirp, or some beast would rustle in the brush, but on the whole it was quiet. As if the animals hid.

  Which they did. Even wolves seldom ventured out with a dragon in their midst. Bran continued on, undaunted. It was only a little past the midday hour, and he was fresh from dinner and the relatively easy ride up the hills. He could walk for hours; only total darkness would keep him from continuing on.