Chapter Three: Great Knight King Rendal.
"What say you? Iron Clad?" The Councillor was eagerly perched on his sturdy throne beside King Berenike, his simple crown adorned with two silver shimmering jewels. The Councillor scratched his chin thoughtfully as the silence lingered, he stared down at the giant man. An insistent tapping of fingers rattled endlessly and at the tip of his mouth a smug curve stretched. Without his armour Iron Clad was still a man of colossal proportions, old and wizened, yet capable. As their eyes met, the Councillor trembled nervously, his blinks hastened in quick succession. The stories of Iron Clad were still fresh in the deluded man's eyes, as if he was to lurch forwards and smite them down. Iron Clad looked up in disbelief at his King sitting next to an arrogant Balder Councillor. He used to hold a presence, the commander of the men of Berenike, but now the King had no time for his words. Iron Clad was a Knight of old and he still respected his King, bound by honour, not likability. He was not a dullard though, a Balder, sworn enemy of Berenike had to be sitting up there. Due to the catastrophic outbreak of Undead, the two nations were forced to sign a treaty. This treaty favoured Balder more so than Berenike. Iron Clad was not bothered about fame, but that great battle upon the scorched plain many moons ago now seized to exist. The scribes were paid excessively by Balder and the Great Knight King Rendal; who had slain a dragon with his genius and quick manoeuvrability, would be remembered for eternity. Iron Clad was shadowed in obscurity. When Rendal was found, alone, covered in mud, torn of pride, he was hailed, propelled through the words of his Father and exalted. Valorous Rendal. At first Rendal lavished in his false heroics, being heralded as a great Knight. But then the bards had something real to sing about, their songs rung out of how Rendal stood tall against a dragon, an ancient beast that the gods struggled to quell, and felled it in one swoop. It was actually a drake, a much smaller version, but, without the exaggeration of a giant dragon, the story had little gusto.
Rendal was present, sitting on a higher throne than everyone else, and whenever his eyes wavered towards Iron Clad, he quickly averted them. Rendal was draped in gold lined robes, he commanded an air of prowess through his feats, but his body was frail now, too accustomed to sitting on a throne. Balder and Berenike had been consumed by wealth. Their armies used to be great, before the Undead outbreak there was an enlightened age of commerce. The royals had become self-indulged in all things scintillating and gold. Especially gold. No one wore protective 'ugly' armour, it was all jewels and beads, golden crowns and felt lustrous robes. One swift stab in the back by an assassin would kill a 'Great King'…
Iron Clad stood, fists clenched.
"How can you take both armies into Lordran? And leave us defenceless against the Undead?" He questioned, standing straighter than ever with a look… a faded glimmer, sadness etched across the many lines in his brow.
Rendal slouched in a tall grand throne lined with golden bolts, elbow bent and hand balled against cheek, he sighed.
"Combined, Berenike and Balder can fight on both fronts." King Berenike nodded, reassuring himself and the Council. Iron Clad stood wearily, the glorious battles of old were over, these foolish men, do they really think they can stroll into the land of gods and achieve anything?
"The souls of gods lay in that land, they're up for grabs!" The Councillor laughed rapturously. His eyes glimmered as gold as the jewels encrusted into the many oversized rings on his fingers.
"Souls of gods? Listen to yourself! We are plagued by Undead! Are men come back from Balder, disheartened and frail, we cannot contain it!" Iron Clad roared, his loud voice echoing throughout the pillars of the great hall. There was an abrupt silence.
The Councillors stupid smile morphed into a disgruntled frown, he twiddled the tip of his beard anxiously.
"King Rendal will lead the charge." King Berenike cracked the silence with his deep throaty voice, demanding respect. The Kings order was final. The men clambered out of their cupped, cushioned thrones. The giant man and his shadow stepped aside as the Council exited the chamber.
Knight King Rendal remained, inattentive and vacant; awash in a life full of frivolous things he did not care for. Iron Clad walked over to him.
"Maybe Tarkus should lead the forces." Rendal suggested. He drifted off, staring at the detailed paintings hanging from the wall. The Kings of Berenike, men with over-elaborate, long feathered beards, encased in giant armour, with jutting bevor pieces wrapped around their necks like plucked collars.
It couldn't keep his mind from that loss. That despair that haunted him ever since he was pulled from the earth. The code of a Knight was to finish his opponent, but he struggled with a notion, who was the man that lost his honour that day?
"Maybe…" Iron Clad hung his head, it did not matter what he said, if Rendal wanted it, it would be done.
"I won't let your name rise from the ashes…" Rendal spat spitefully. He rose, steadying himself on the side of the throne, his callused skin taut over his spindly bones.
"Why did you not finish me that day? Hmm? Where is your honour old man? Ever since then I have roamed this world as a phantom, devoid of honour, of a Knight's one pride in life. But I think… why should I? You did not honour the sworn code!" Rendal pointed his finger and yelled, his voice trailing off into a pitiful squeal.
"There is no code, it was my decision and I didn't see a reason to finish you." Iron Clad said, he paused, searching for reason. "It is true, usually the victor finishes his opponent, but not always, sometimes in gladiatorial arenas, like in the age of old, if the king and crowd did not want it, the warrior would not end his opponent."
Rendal faced the hard fact, only he had lost his honour that day and it stared him in the face. Rendal stepped down, his robes dragging against the granite steps.
He stood before the giant man and looked him in the eye.
"I'd challenge you, but what for? You're nothing now, and were nothing back then…" Rendal turned about, his robes rippled under the light, a surge of golden waves shimmering over its surface. The gold, when the light had faded, was as dull as the blackest fragment.
"What happened next?" The darkness crept over, the fire illuminated every speck of detail, setting the Knights once dull surcoat ablaze in an aura of blue. The scars across Tarkus' darkened helm came to light, and the six holes implanted across his visor deepened with a solemnity.
"I awoke, from a nightmare." He replied, languidly. He observed the attentive statues, their features curved awkwardly, as if scrutinising him now, but surely it was merely tricks from the fire and shadows?
His eyes peeled back, he had attuned to the darkness such that the rays of light were harsh, almost shimmering him blind.
That putrid taste, a hardened ever-present lump in his throat now, a haunting abhorrence. He felt around, coursing his hands through rags and solid cold, moulting flesh.
He remembered.
He shot upright and lingered there, swaying gently, a languid feeling crushed his body. His armour was so heavy now. He looked down, skin stretched over bone, he must've picked up the hand of an Undead.
"Tarkus?"
His shoulders surged, back and forth, forcefully.
"Tarkus?"
"…" He was stolid, he did not speak, could he speak? His wife and child was just an image in his mind, the features on their faces inhuman. Could he see them for what they once were?
Flecks of bright yellow glittered over the floor, the yellow drifted, he could feel waves of heat rush over him.
The Knight helped him up and looked at his covered face.
"You alright in there?"
He trudged forwards, his legs sludge like, a heavy burden pushed down upon him. Outside the street was normal… no… the doors were all open. Planks of wood strewn across the cobbled courtyard. He turned to the light, holding up his hand. A giant bonfire roared, the wind flowing, batting down the flames, only to rise once more higher than ever. A pall of smoke rose, with an unbearable smell, a scent he thought he was accustom to, but the fresh and old burning corpses released a horrifying rot that hung, the lump of phlegm choked him. Tarkus coughed, unsteady on his feet. He fell to his knees and looked up, in a glimpse he caught it, in the mound of sweltering Undead; Alandra's hand, a single band of silver on her finger. His willpower was strong, (Iron Clad the indestructible… Iron Tarkus the… the…) he stood, his burnished armour incandescent in the heat of the fire. Warnings blared out around him, but he ignored them and knelt, the fire licking his chest, a torrent of intense heat blasting through his visor. He grabbed her hand and ran his fingers over it gently.
He held her hand and smiled, softly running his fingers over her knuckles.
Familiar rows of vivid turquoise and teal stretched across the horizon. A tartan blanket, with a multitude of red shades across its face was laid out with crusty torn chunks of bread and bronze coated wild boar. Tarkus held a lilac, flower patterned jug and poured himself some more fruity wine. He brought it to his nose, a zesty surge of grapes tickled his senses. Splendid, the finest in all of Berenike!
The meadows canopies glittered in the dying light, the crisp browning leaves slowly fell, one by one, as if plucked by an invisible hand. The sol gleamed on the horizon, its rays piercing through branches, dappling auburn across them.
"I wrote you a poem." She said, smiling with glowing red in her cheeks.
"Ah…" Tarkus was struck for words, usually dashing men with long elegant blonde hair wrote intricate poems, flowing with words of passion and beauty for their wives, but Tarkus had never gotten the chance, he was a man of war. He sat back, nestling into the blanket with the utmost attention across his face.
Tall blades of grass
Buckled trees
A horizon suffused with purple and red
Staring into those ardent eyes
A never ending passion.
He took the ring.