The westerly winds howled. The noise, haunting and menacing—like the feral coydogs that lurked in the shadowy alleys of Lankshire seeking bits of food, desperate and capable of causing death—echoed in the crevices of the rocky peak, clinging to the edges of the cliffs as if warning the two riders to turn back; a wordless promise of impending danger…of death.
“Keep up, Aldric,” Sir Emeric bellowed over his shoulder, the wicked winds not strong enough to dampen his voice nor veil the anger from reaching the young squire’s ears.
Aldric nodded at his knight’s back. He gripped the reins tighter, hoping to steady his horse’s gait as they traversed the rugged terrain and calm the fear pulsing through his limbs.
The ascent was difficult. The trail up the mountain’s side was barely wide enough to accommodate the horses’ impressive frames. The afternoon faded away, taking the final remnants of light with it.
“Why didn’t we remain at the inn? Wait out the weather? Always has to be the hero. Sir Emeric the brave…more like Sir Emeric the foolish twit,” Aldric said, not worrying about lowering his voice, the whirling winds whisking his words away from the knight’s ears.
Snow swirled in sudden bursts, blurring the ragged path that twisted up Megiddo’s flank, each stone slick with ice and rumor. The tales overheard in the Lankshire pub the night before wrestled with logic inside the squire’s mind—his imagination and the dire stories of men losing their souls in the mountainous summits were currently winning the battle.
Aldric forced his thoughts away, leaned forward in the saddle, and rode behind his master in silence, his fingers raw on the reins, his heart beating louder than the hooves clopping over the frigid terra beneath him. Sir Emeric Kierterad—Royal Knight of the Thorne king, slayer of giants, breaker of siege lines—hadn’t spoken in hours, not since the first glimmer of violet flame flickered at the edge of the summit’s cave mouth. Aldric had followed him through war and ruin, but tonight, the silence felt heavier than armor. Like something was already being mourned.
They were alone now. The rest of the rowdy crew hired from the local town as guides had abandoned them two nights ago after they encountered the icy stone bridge that spanned the gorge. The horses had balked at attempting to cross the narrow expanse, and so did the men…despite Emeric’s offer of more gold. The men declared Sir Emerich “a reckless oaf” and Aldric “the simpleton squire” and turned back. “You’re both going to die up on that mountain if you don’t turn back now,” the men had issued a final warning to the pair before disappearing on the horizon—in the direction of Lankshire and civilization. Sir Emeric ignored their words. He pressed on, sword sheathed but hand never far from its hilt, jaw clenched in grim determination. Alric followed behind him as required for any good and faithful squire.
Alone in the unfamiliar region of Iosia, Sir Emerich and Alric continued their journey over the bridge of whispers. Aldric did not know if the bridge had a name, but as he guided his horse carefully over the slippery surface, he deemed it so named. The whispers were faint, but Aldric heard them—soft calls in the wind that spoke his name but not that of his master.
“This place is wrong,” Aldric had muttered as they passed a crumbling outpost swallowed by frost. Emeric had only nodded, eyes fixed on the path ahead.
As the last light faded behind a veil of snow and smoke, the path ended in a jagged stone maw. A cave, cloaked with ice and shadow, exhaled the faintest warmth—unnatural and sour. A single brass lantern burned at the opening’s center, barely visible through the gloom. Its flame shimmered in shades no hearth had ever birthed—amethyst and aquamarine, pulsing like a heartbeat. Emeric raised a hand, signaling Aldric to halt, as he swung his leg over his massive steed named Demon and dismounted with a confidence that had earned the decorated knight respect from men throughout the kingdom.
Aldric sighed, tugged on the reins, stopped his horse, and dismounted. He did not bother to tie his horse’s reins. Blaze would not leave, for he, like Alric, was well-trained to obey blindly without objection.
“Sir?” Aldric called softly as he stepped inside the cave.
Emeric stood tall, shoulders squared, and stared at the lantern illuminating the ground before him. Its flames painted his armor in jewel-toned ghostlight. Aldric watched him in awe, for Emeric’s stance never ceased to be an impressive site; even here in the middle of nowhere, in an abandoned mountain cave, his mentor retained his knightly demeanor. Emeric eyes narrowed at the brass lantern. He stepped closer, and the cave appeared to shrink around him, swallowing even the echo of his breath as he reached toward the lantern.
“Don’t,” Aldric said, his voice cracking in his parched throat. “Something’s—wrong, Sir. Let me—”
Emeric’s hand closed around the lantern’s handle. Aldric held his breath, his muscles tensing as he braced for it. For what he did not know, but his instincts insisted that danger was about to pounce. As the knight lifted the lantern closer to his face, Aldric waited for something to happen. And nothing. There was no cry. No explosion. No flash of light. Only silence as he stood, staring into mysterious flame. Seconds passed. Then minutes.
“Sir?” Alrich said, releasing his held breath.
No answer.
Aldric stepped forward, heart pounding, boots crunching softly over the icy cave floor. He reached out, his fingers gripping Emeric’s arm—stiff, cold.
“Sir Emeric, can you hear me?”
Aldric reached out with his other hand and gently turned his mentor’s face towards him, hoping for a response, curse, or reprimand. Sir Emeric’s eyes were wide. Empty. Glazed in violet reflection. Alive, perhaps—but vacant.
Something inside Aldric broke. He didn’t scream. Didn’t speak. He only moved. His years of squire training instinctively took over and suffocated the fear threatening to overtake his senses. Sir Emeric needed help. Needed his squire. Alrich had never failed in his duties and was not about to start now, not when the situation was the most ominous he’d ever faced during his service.
He strode over to Blaze, yanked off his saddle blanket, and hurried back into the cave. Aldric wrestled the lantern from the knight’s grip, wrapped it tightly within the woven fabric, careful to not look directly at the flames, and stuffed it deep into the satchel strapped across Blaze’s flank.
Alric returned to the dark cave and, with a shaking breath, carefully guided his mentor—his friend—out. Sweat beaded up on Aldric’s brow despite the blizzard swirling around them as he used all the strength in his toned arms to lift the solid body of Sir Emeric onto Demon’s back. With Blaze’s reins clutched in his left hand and Demon’s in his right, Alrich slowly guided the towering warhorses forward as the hollow-eyed knight swayed in the saddle like a marionette with its strings half-cut.
Behind them, in the saddlebag strapped to Blaze’s side, Alric could hear the lantern’s flames pulsing through the canvas wrap, beckoning him to stop and peer at them.
He did not heed its call, locking his gaze on the descending trail before him. The squire led Blaze, Demon, and Sir Emerich—the hollow-eyed knight—toward the base of Megiddo and civilization back to Caelius and the Thorne King.
With each step away from the cave, the lantern’s flames grew louder in Alric’s ears—or his mind, he could not tell—its call increasingly haunting, its allure more inviting. He knew they would not stop. The lantern was waiting…
Alive. Awake.
And terribly patient.
Alas, this is all that the scroll has chosen to reveal at this time. However, do not be dismayed. There is more to this tale yet to be remembered. Return next week for the next part…
In the meantime, share this with someone who believes in magical whispers and lost legends.
Be sure to share this tale with someone who believes in magical whispers and lost legends.
