Chapter 4: The Shadowknight
(Years ago)
Tyrnoth lumbered back through Ab-polsk, carrying water buckets hanging from the wooden yoke over his shoulders. The buckets weren’t full, because Tyr couldn’t lift them if they were both completely full. If Mother wanted more water to clean the single rabbit she’d brought back from her hunt, she’d have to send Tyrnoth to the well again or wait for it to rain in earnest.
Ab-polsk wasn’t much of a village. Mostly it housed the iron miners providing for the local fighting forces and the nearby Reignspire. Why the Reignspire would need iron for weapons and armor if it was protected by a god, Tyrnoth didn’t know, but he assumed the gods needed it for other things. The village didn’t have a healer, a temple, or a school, but it had the most important thing needed by villages where overworked people live in poverty – a tavern. Truthfully, the tavern was mostly a shack that leaned slightly eastward, due to it not having been built sturdy enough to properly withstand the high winds they’d get in spring. But, it was a tavern, nonetheless.
Tyrnoth figured that’s where his mother would be off to once she’d cleaned the rabbit and sold the pelt. She drank away most of the money she made while hunting. Father had told him to leave Mother alone, and to not give her trouble about it, even if her drinking did make her yell and cry and throw things sometimes when she came home. She never threw things at Father, or at Tyrnoth. She only threw them at the wall, or into the fire. No, she never struck them, but Tyr found her nonetheless frightening. Tyr would often wake up to his mother sobbing. She cried a lot.
The spring rains had left the village muddy, and Tyr could feel the muck soaking into his ill-fitting boots. He’d done his best to mend them, but the leather was splitting at the toe on the left, and it defied any haphazard repairs he could make. But, he had shoes, where a number of village children didn’t, so he didn’t make a fuss about it. Despite the faint drizzle, the residents of Ab-polsk were out and about, doing all the things that needed to be done to make their miserable life bearable. A couple of men sawed at a log, and others stood and chatted, occasionally pointing in the direction of the mines. Tyr saw his friend Willow trying to catch a frog, and a woman on her roof trying to put something over a hole to keep out the rain. Everyone in Ab-polsk was Garbh. They had no Uaisle to harass them, no Keenlings, and no Humans. Tyr had once heard one of his father’s friends from the mines say that even if living in Ab-polsk was hard, at least they had relative safety here. In the cities, a stray Garbh out at night could end up beaten, or dead.
“You can put the buckets on the stump there when I’m done. Let the rain fill ‘em back up,” Mother said as Tyr arrived back at their home. They had a small porch that Father had built a few years back, with a covered roof and a wooden table at one side that Mother could use for cleaning game. Mother wasn’t the best hunter in town, but she was quite a good hunter, and almost always came back with something. Although working in the mines paid more, and she could have done so, hunting kept food in their stomachs when there wasn’t anything to buy with coin.
Tyr stood off to the side, not on the porch, peering through the railing at how she handled everything. Knowing how to clean game was important. Mostly, though, he watched to watch his mother. She had different skin to himself and his Father. Hers had a faint blue tint to it, and her face had dark freckles, making her look a bit like a songbird egg. These days, the dark puffy circles under her eyes, and lines around her mouth made her look exhausted. She’d once told Tyr that if she didn’t drink, she couldn’t sleep.
“Will you tell me a story, Mother?” Tyr asked, “I’ll do all your chores tonight.”
“You’ll do them anyway if I tell you to,” she replied, sliding her knife along a bit of sinew. “Anyway, doesn’t your Father tell you not to listen to my stories, because they frighten you, and then you can’t sleep? Hm?”
Tyrnoth nodded. But, sometimes, being told not to do something just made you want to do it more. “Your stories are exciting, though.”
“I suppose they are.”
At that moment, several people rushed past their little house, one of them hissing, “Hide, hide, everyone hide.”
Mother stopped what she was doing with her knife, and Tyr turned around to face the lane. They heard nearby doors closing, and the sounds of the village come to a halt. The woman who had been hammering the patch on her roof stopped hammering. The sound of sawing ceased. The chatter of neighbors became ominous silence.
Tyrnoth heard the hooves squicking in the mud before he actually saw the horse. When it appeared, Tyr sucked in a breath that he ended up holding due to fright. The massive beast had two swept-back horns as black as its coat, and instead of a horsehair tail, sported a whip-like protrusion longer than its body, decorated with dark iron spikes. The rider wore full metal armor of oil-slick black, now nearly reflective in the drizzle. Together they cut an imposing figure, one unseen in Ab-polsk for many years. It was one of the Shadowknights, riding a Nightmare. Tyrnoth had never seen one before, though everyone knew what they looked like. These were the heroes who fought against the Luminous Host, the warriors who kept Anathema safe from the scourge of the Radiant Path.
When the rider and his mount came to a stop in front of their house, Tyr clutched a bucket of water and tried to back away, but ended up simply pressed against the porch railing. He wanted to dart up the steps and hide behind his Mother, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of the knight. He’d never seen something so beautiful and terrifying before, something that inspired both awe and fear. The rider’s helmet turned their direction, and without lifting the visor, a deep voice asked, “The Reignspire?”
Thankfully, Mother answered, because Tyr was still holding his breath. “Keep along the path through the village. When it forks, turn northwest.” He heard Mother lift her hatchet from where it had been stuck into the wood. “And if you come back this way, don’t go through Ab-polsk. We stay clear of the Uaisle, so kindly steer clear of us.”
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The Shadowknight hesitated. Instead of moving along, his gauntleted hand raised to lift the visor. Even in the overcast light of the afternoon, Tyrnoth could easily see that the man’s skin tone matched his mother’s, dusty pastel blue. They didn’t need to see his hands to know he’d have the mark of the Garbh. No Uaisle had such light-colored skin. Tyrnoth’s eyes grew wide. He had no idea that a Garbh could become a Shadowknight. But, now it made sense as to why he was riding in full armor. Even if it was frowned upon to cover the Garbh marking, it would mean that he’d be harassed less during his journey.
“I see,” Mother said, albeit somewhat sourly, “When you come back this way, we’ll do what we can to see to your comfort.”
The man nodded, pushed his visor back down, and he and his Nightmare continued on their way. Tyr froze and didn’t begin moving again until he heard his mother hacking away at the rabbit with her hatchet. Then he turned and watched her. The expression on her face had turned gloomy, and Tyr knew it meant she’d be at the tavern until it closed later.
“Do you know the story of the Cleaving Battles, Tyr?”
“Not really.” He knew that’s when the Tenebrous Horde and Luminous Host first fought, but he didn’t really know anything else.
“Mm,” she grunted, pressing her lips together as she hacked off one of the rabbit’s legs. “Once, the Luminous Host and Tenebrous Horde were as one. All Aesidhe stood together, all of us. But, after the War of the Dawn, not everyone believed that the entombing of the Lightcaller was a good idea. And some even believed he should be freed. At first, the Radiant Path and its priests were considered just a dangerous cult that believed that releasing the Lightcaller would allow him to destroy all the gods and lift up his followers as the new gods. When anyone found Radiant Path priests, they destroyed them. Such a heresy went against all that we accomplished during the War of the Dawn.”
Tyr heard her hatchet hack the rabbit into a few more pieces, all of which were tossed into a bowl.
“However, the Radiant Path thought of a clever way to gather followers. They pandered to the Luminous Host, deigning them the Chosen People, due to their light-colored skin. Lightkissed, they called them. They had been preordained to follow the Lightcaller and rid darkness from Anathema. The so-called ‘heretic gods’ must be destroyed so that Lightcaller may rise and purify the land with light, they said.”
Tyr placed the buckets on the stump for the rain to fill them, and then rushed to follow his mother inside. “But, hadn’t they all fought against the Lightcaller together?”
“They had. However, it’s absurdly easy to convince people that they are special, that god has chosen them. Everyone wants to feel their actions are righteous. And it’s especially easy to do if you give them a common enemy. In this case, they decided the dark-hued skin of the Tenebrous Horde marked them as unworthy. The Lightcaller dislikes darkness, after all.”
Tyr watched as his mother dumped the rabbit meat into their stew pot.
“Come help peel and chop these potatoes,” she said, motioning him over to the rickety table they used for eating. One of the table legs had been damaged during his mother’s many nightly tirades, and they’d replaced it with a piece of wood that hadn’t been exactly the right length. If you leaned on the table with any weight at all, it tilted. Tyr made sure not to lean and took up peeling one of the potatoes, hoping that his mother would continue her story. She did.
“Eventually, a large number of Luminous Host followed the Radiant Path. The priests had made special efforts to convert those in power. The military. The rich. Nobility. Then there were people like my parents. They followed only because they didn’t want the priests to call them heretics, and make trouble for them. My father had been a great healer, and my mother was his assistant. When the fighting broke out, they did what they could to heal both sides, even if they had to heal the Tenebrous Horde in secret. They healed the Luminous Host as well, less secretly, hoping it would prove to the Radiant Path that they could be trusted. But, someone they healed spilled their secret. Knowledge got back to the Radiant Path, and my parents and I had to flee the lands of the Luminous Host. They hoped they would be better received by the Tenebrous Horde. After all, they had healed Tenebrous Horde soldiers in secret.”
Tyr had become so wrapped up in the story that he’d stopped halfway through the potato peeling. His mother tapped the potato with her knife to remind him of what he should be doing.
“But, the Tenebrous Horde were rightfully wary. They thought everyone who fled from the lands of the Luminous Host could likely be spies or plants. So everyone they came across with light skin, even those who hadn’t killed anyone, were put into camps. You must understand. My parents, your grandparents, never did anything but try to heal the wounded. But, one of the Tenebrous Horde testified that they had healed high officers of the Luminous Host. Having provided aid to such high-ranked enemies, they came under deep suspicion, and I watched as they were dragged away to be tortured.” Tyr heard his mother’s voice become brittle and strained. “Later, I watched their executions. Their bound hands were tied to one Nightmare, and their feet to another. Yet another binding, this one thicker, was put around their waist and tied to a tree. Soldiers of the Tenebrous Horde drove the Nightmares to run away from the tree, and I watched as the rope around their waists cut through them, ripping them in half. I still hear their screams, their pleading, and the terrible sound of their flesh tearing.”
Tyr handed his mother the peeled potato, his hands shaking. He had no idea that’s how his grandparents died. He’d always assumed the Tenebrous Horde to be the saviors of Anathema. But, knowing them to be capable of such grotesque wrongs filled him with sorrow and doubt.
“Eventually the bloodshed slowed. Each army secured land they could easily defend along natural boundaries, and while they still are at war, the fighting slowed to what it is now. But, that still left the Tenebrous Horde with a great number of refugees in camps. Despite most people in the camps having not even participated in the war, there was no way for the Horde to tell which had been soldier deserters, or spies, or former Shining Path fanatics who simply ended up captured. It was decided everyone would be accepted into the Tenebrous Horde, but not without a reminder that would show everyone that they or their ancestors had, once, been on the wrong side of a battle. They should not be trusted, could possibly be traitors, and might still have sympathies for the enemy. The hereditary mark of the Garbh was placed on all of those former Luminous Host Aesidhe who joined the Tenebrous Horde. No matter how dark a Garbh’s skin may become, the mark will be visible for all to see. That is the only difference between us and the Uaisle - that once, long ago, by chance, we were on the wrong side of a battle we didn’t even seek to fight.”
By then, the potato had been chopped. Tyr didn’t watch as his mother stood to pour the potato chunks into the stew pot. He just stared at the back of his hands, for the first time truly understanding the meaning of the starburst markings. It made sense to him now why you didn’t hear of the Garbh becoming warriors, and definitely not Shadowknights like the one they saw earlier. Nobody trusted them to fight. Even now, years and years after the Cleaving Battles, they were still seen as potential traitors.
He listened as his mother grabbed the rabbit fur and pulled on her boots before heading to the door. She stopped only to murmur, “I’m going to the tavern. Tell your father not to wait up.”
After that day, never again did Tyrnoth wonder why his mother drank.