knight. He flashed into the midst of battle, brought a moment’s victory, and disappeared, leaving behind a trail of misery and death. That’s how the devil comes, beckoning gold but causing only pain. But that knight was to Moren almost a god. He prayed for his new appearance. He dreamed of talking to him, of simply removing his helmet and looking into his eyes, of shaking his gauntlet-shrouded hand in a friendly way, without even fearing that one. Incredibly strong and hard, it would just crush his bones. Somehow he was sure that in the eyes of this ghost or demigod, whom he did not even know, he would be able to find all the wisdom of the world and understanding. The nameless warrior would give him answers to all his questions and become an associate. They will fight shoulder to shoulder. And God knows, it is not Manfred but this knight that Moren would have wished to see as his king.
Yes, what’s the matter with him. He is almost in love. How silly and frightening at the same time. Moren felt as if he had touched something forbidden, removed his helmet and armor from a body that must not be exposed. And there beneath the armor instead of flesh was a red-hot piece of steel, an imitation of the sun, scorching hot and ready to envelop you in a deadly embrace.
Moren awoke from his visions. All around him was the winter cold, the wind, the frost, the snow-covered forest, and the uncultivated virgin snow. No cottage nearby, no hut, no village, the nearest town many miles away, the country road long since marked by snowdrifts. He could freeze to death here. And he thinks of the sun, the glowing rays and the hot iron. In his tired, depressed mind the hammers of the Zwergs forge the armor of the deity and it glitters like the dawn. In his dreams this same deity, shining like the sun, comes to his bed, holds out his hand in his gauntlet, and bids Moren become his associate.
“Forever!” utters a beautiful harsh voice, the sound of which chills the blood and sends shivers down the spine. “Forever, my earthly brother, for my term of service to the god is eternal. There will be only battles, blood, and chopping, and no lost heaven. Are you ready to fight alongside me until the end of time?”
Oh, yes, he was ready.
“You are an angel, aren’t you? Or are you God himself? And are there really wings hidden under your cloak?” Moren asked in his dreams, and he awoke in a cold sweat, his fingers still reaching for the golden vision, though the tent before his bed was empty. No golden light, not even a candle burns in the cold, but he was sure that if he stretched his hand forward, he would surely get burned. He dreamed of touching the fire. In his dreams his hands reached out to remove the helmet from the head of the radiant warrior and even if he burned his fingers, even if his hands burned or shattered, he longed to see the face of his new commander and lord. He is sure that this face will be the answer to all his questions. It is in the warrior’s face, not in himself, that secrets lie hidden. This is why he never shows himself close to anyone except those he will pierce with his sword and never reveals his name to anyone. For with a name he must show his face.
Moren could almost see him in his dreams, even through his helmet. The face was more like a maiden’s, so stern and so luminous that it was almost impossible to make out the features. But somehow he was sure it resembled Rianon’s features in some way. Absurd, of course, but a dream is not reality. It could be full of absurdities. Dreams are by nature messy, but you have to be able to interpret them, and then everything comes together into a clear picture. But Moren was no expert at interpreting dreams, and he certainly couldn’t find a witch doctor here to interpret them for him. He could only surmise that the dream, which burned inside him, was momentous and fateful.
Now he dreamed of a banner adorned with the head of a golden dragon and of a warlord in shining armor.
“My earthly counterpart. Earthly, not heavenly,” the voice from the dream was still in his head, calm, commanding, and mesmerizing. He offered nothing and demanded nothing, but Moren was willing to follow him anywhere. He would even gladly give the unknown warrior his place at the head of the remaining troops. He was sure that the warrior-god would not lead him to certain death. The first time he disappeared and they began to lose, but if he returned, things could still be sorted out.
Of course, such thoughts might have come to him under the pressure of numerous messengers. Manfred sent them every week, later every day, he asked and even demanded that Moren think of a way to not only throw his remaining forces into battle, but to find the unknown warrior. Where to look Manfred did not say, but he promised that he would execute his commander-in-chief for not carrying out his orders.. Rumors have reached Moren that Manfred is already considered mad at court. He scurried about the throne room like a black raven, claiming that he could tame the deity and make it serve him. In the same way, one might claim to reach for a star in the sky and catch flames with one’s bare hands. The courtiers nodded smartly in the king’s face and chuckled behind his back. Many even regretted the fleeing princess Rhianon. Even if she had gone mad, she would have attracted people with her charms and wouldn’t have prevented her advisors from ruling for her. This would have been a place where court intrigues and parties of minions would have been free to snatch a piece of power by befriending the charming young queen. Conrad, on the other hand, was looked upon with either condescension or contempt. Even the prince’s friends ran off to play cards and wander the pubs, leaving him alone. They were tired of hearing him harp on about his runaway lover and his penchant for black magic. Many were also frightened by his complete unwillingness to think about the affairs of the country. No one thought of Princess Hildegard as a potential queen.
Because of her unattractiveness, she was forgotten. But she had her chances. This cunning black lady was capable of much. Moren remembered her scheming and her greedy look when she lured him once into the dark tower.
“You might fall down this steep staircase if you don’t accept my offer,” she hinted to him. He had forgotten her words then, but they came sharply to mind now. She had promised him her advisor’s place if he would help her take her father’s place. At the time he thought it was a game. One of Hildegard’s ladies-in-waiting might just be lurking behind the draperies and laughing at a successful joke. However, the game was repeated over and over again. Again and again the unassuming lady dressed in black lured the knights into the corner tower, offering them seats near the throne if they would help her occupy it. If not, they would wring their necks. In the beginning the threats were empty, but then some accidents did happen. Like a true gentleman, Moren kept quiet about the antics of the strange lady, and who would believe him. Who knows how many she had already lured or intimidated to her side? As he walked through the throne room, he caught the icy glances of her ladies-in-waiting. Even in their bright dresses and wreaths they looked like harpies, daring to leap. They chuckled nastily and joked behind the knights’ backs. And Hildegard, perpetually dressed in black, already looked like the queen-widow in their circle, or the black lady of death. Moren disliked her, but he had no intention of engaging in intrigue.
Of course, he himself, like many, would have preferred to see Rhianon, the rightful heiress and beautiful girl, as queen. But where is she? Does she know what is happening in her country? What if she is too far away from Loreth and has no idea that a rift is brewing at court? Now would be a good time for her to return. Manfred is mad, he can easily be overthrown and imprisoned, the courtiers will support her, Conrad cannot oppose her, and probably will not want to. He is naturally passive and easily sidelined. And the golden-haired princess is said to have a strong character and an unwavering will. Some have even predicted that she could fight with a sword in her hand, not just lead a weak-willed husband. But Moren was certain that if she took the throne, and if she rejected a foreign prince, she would choose the best of the knights of her land, the one who could truly defend herself and her power with his sword.
“Like you,” a mischievously mocking voice rang out, and then someone nearby laughed, lightly, mockingly, and at ease, as if it had become a pleasure to drive one to madness with jokes.
He turned around abruptly. There was no one around, only silver snowflakes trembling and flying from the branches of a lone fir tree. If someone unseen was talking to him, he would have to fit on this branch, right on the spruce needles or the snowflakes falling from them.
Moren