(AN: This is the first chapter to a new novel I'm starting. The story is still in its planning stages, but I wanted to post the first chapter to get feedback and garner interest in the work. The story is extremely low fantasy (I'm still trying to decide whether or not to put magical elements in it). It is meant to resemble the low middle ages during the time of the first crusade. The only reason I did not actually set it in such a historical setting was because securing historical accuracy would be a huge pain, so hopefully this setting will work better. Please read and review. Don't hold anything back. Any and all advice would be much appreciated.)

Dominion of Deceit

Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumour of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war,
Might never reach me more.

---William Cowper, The Task, Book II

Chapter 1

A hot wind swept across Jonah of Claravy’s face, drying the sweat that had beaded over his brow like a hundred translucent lady bugs. Standing atop the battlements of the walled city of Arnoch, he smiled, savoring the dry Zephyr against his clean-shaven cheek. A tangle of dark hair framed his face, and a pair of watery blue eyes stared out from beneath an intelligent brow, matching the color of the clear sky arching overhead. Dressed in a chain mail hauberk, the veteran knight could almost feel the perspiration seeping out of his pores. A tabard of white cloth with a black cross emblazoned across the front of it hung over his chest, and a filigreed steel long sword hung sheathed at his side. He sighed as the wind passed, glancing back toward tri-tiered keep behind him, looming over the rest of the city. Lamenting the passing of the breeze, he let his gaze wander over the walled city that stretched out before him.

His eyes walked across the various districts, up the spires and minarets, and down into the gutters and shanty towns that laced the edges of the medieval metropolis like the vestiges of gangrene on a festering wound. He followed the slums as they suddenly stopped at the docks, where the river Rohdan stretched out across the desert landscape like a serpent of greenish-brown glass. The river formed the fourth wall of the city, along with brick and mortar fortifications that extended partway into the water. Several white masts could be seen clustered around the dock where warehouses, inns, and customs buildings cluttered the pier.

Jonah heaved a sigh and turned, looking away from the city and out toward the desert where the land met the sky in a wavering haze like steam rising off of a boiling pot. He tapped his foot against the rampart, anxiously grinding his teeth together.

“You are anxious for their arrival, my Lord?”

Jonah smiled wistfully as he turned to the man next to him. The old man-at-arms wore dark hunting leathers. He ad a large hunting knife that rode against his hip and a longbow slung over one shoulder. His face was the consistency of worn leather, crinkled and burnished from years in the sun, and his bald pate shone glossily in the bright morning light.

“I cannot wait, Simon. It has been too long since I last saw Elana and the boys. They are even bringing Mother along with them. It is such a blessing.”

Simon nodded understandingly. In three years of hard campaigning, the only contact Jonah had with his family back in the province of Claravy had been intermittent correspondence through letters, which, up until recently, had been infrequent at best.

When High Priest Arthur IV had sent out a plea for warriors for a Crusade against the men of the southlands, both Jonah and Simon heeded the call. Jonah had a small fiefdom in the homelands, but he gladly put down his plow shares and picked up the sword in the name of the Church. Always a pious man, the knight had felt the One True God goading him into action, and when the request had been made, he jumped at the opportunity. When he left, he took his retainers and men-at-arms with him—Simon included. They set out in the spring, leaving their wives and families at home and marched on the southlands to join the Crusade.

The lands to the south of the continent were occupied by several disparate nations, none of them more or less powerful than the others, but all of them were linked by one religion, much like the countries of the north where the True God reigned. Their religion was a mutilation of the northern Church, with different customs, beliefs, and practices fraught with mysticism and superstition. Only the name of their god linked the two religions. High Priest Arthur IV initiated the Crusade to reclaim these “lost brethren” in the name of the Church and bring the two lands under one banner—his own.

At the onset of the invasion, the crusaders expected a swift victory. The High Priest prophesied it as such because, of course, God would be on their side. The reality of it, as such things usually are, was more complicated than that. The southerners may have been scattered, but they were still tenacious fighters. The first clash between two large forces resulted in a resounding defeat for the Crusaders. It became abundantly clear that faith in God alone was not sufficient enough to guarantee victory.

The northern war machine regrouped and launched another attack soon, this time with considerably more prudence. Slowly but surely, more and more territory began to fall into Crusader hands. The campaign culminated with the siege and assault of the walled city of Arnoch. Jonah himself led the charge as a breach in the outer curtain formed. He and his men maintained their grip until reinforcements could arrive and exploit the breach. After the citadel at Arnoch fell, the High Priest called a halt to the crusade, turning from conquest to politics in an effort to solidify the Church’s foothold on the region. Now an uneasy peace existed with the southern nations, with the heathen rulers eyeing the new Northern territory for any potential weaknesses.

The new nation, known as Epherus under southern rule, was renamed “Christendom,” meant to be a beacon for the One True Religion in a sea of heathen darkness. The High Priest appointed several prefects to govern the new territory as a theocratic extension of the Church. The Head Prefect, a man by the name of Lanivus, had been a priest residing in the homelands for the majority of the campaign. At the moment, he was in the process of instituting programs to convert the native population from their sinful beliefs to the path of the One True God. So far, converts had been few and far between, but the citizens had relatively accommodating toward their new rulers.

For Jonah’s participation in the conquest of the southlands, Prefect Lanius awarded him a fiefdom in the new land and the title of Paladin—warrior of God. Once told of his good fortune, his first inclination was to thank God. The second was to thank the Prefect. But the third was to send for his family. It had taken four months, but finally they had almost arrived.

“Look,” Simon said, pointing out toward the desert where a small plume of dust had risen over the horizon.

Jonah shaded his eyes with his hand. “Is it them?”

Simon shook his head. “Nay, it’s too small. Moving too quickly, as well.”

The two men watched in pensive silence as the trail of dust lengthened and grew closer. Once it drew nearer, they could see that it was a lone rider atop a horse. The man slumped in the saddle, bent over the horse’s neck as the beast strained for every bit of speed it could muster. They were almost on top of the city gates before Jonah saw the arrow protruding from the rider’s back.

They traded looks. Then both warriors immediately headed for the stairs. They took the steps three at a time, squeezing through narrow passages in the winding route through the walls and down to the gatehouse. When they arrived, the horse and rider had already arrived. One of the guards grabbed the horse by the reigns as the wild-eyed beast stamped the ground with frothy energy. Jonah’s eyes widened when he saw who it was.

“Aiden!” He rushed to the man’s side as he finally toppled out of the saddle. A smear of sticky blood stained his back where the black-feathered arrow had punched through his leather armor. The young man’s cheeks were deathly pale, and his disheveled hair stuck to his face in clammy locks. His half-lidded eyes were heavy from fatigue and pain.

“Who is he?” one of the guardsmen asked.

“A soldier from my estate back in the homelands,” Jonah said absently. “He was supposed to accompany my family to the city.” He took Aiden’s head in his arms, wiping the hair away from his face. “Aiden,” he whispered, “can you hear me? Who did this to you? Where are the others?”

At the sound of his lord’s voice, the man’s eyes blinked open, looking wildly about as if startled by his surroundings.

“What happened?” Jonah urged once more.

“We were attacked,” the young man gasped. “Raiders, bandits—I don’t know. They attacked…out of the dunes.”

“Where?”

He glanced back toward desert uncomprehendingly. “I… don’t know,” he finally said. “I can’t remember where it was. I’m sorry, I just ran. I—“

Jonah touched his face gently, fighting back his own emotions. “You did the right thing. Rest now. We’ll take care of things.” He looked up at the gate guards. “Get him to the healers.”

They quickly picked him up and carried him off toward the medical buildings. As Jonah stood, wiping the blood from his hands, Simon was beside him.

The old veteran kept his voice neutral. He could see the emotions twisting Jonah’s face, and although he knew what was coming next, he asked the question anyway. “What now, my Lord?”

“We will just have to follow his tracks,” Jonah said evenly. “Gather what men you can. Knights or otherwise, it matters not, so long as they can ride and wield a sword. Muster them as quickly as you can in the stables. We ride in ten minutes.”

Simon gave his master a grim nod and hurried off down the street to do his bidding.

----------

Horse hooves beat against the hard sand like the pounding of drums, mixing together with the jingle of mail. Twelve riders, riding in a column two by two, thundered across the desert landscape. Each had different arms and armor, but all bore the black cross across their chests and were pushing their frothing steeds as fast as they could go.

At the head of the column, Jonah rode upon his grayish-white gelding, bent low over the horse’s back with conical helm gleaming in the sun. With a shield on one arm, and a lance in hand, the paladin’s stern face foretold his intent more than any regalia ever could. At the moment, his eyes were riveted upon a thin column of smoke, rising from where the hard desert turned into rolling dunes just a few hundred yards ahead.

Beside him, Simon pointed toward the thread of smoke. “We’re close.”

He didn’t need to say as much. Jonah had already seen it. As the horse thundered nearer, he crested a ridge of loose sand, kicking up plumes of grit. A small valley of dunes opened up before him. He reigned in his mount, briefly pausing atop the crest to survey the scene below. Trails of greasy smoke inked the cloudless sky, threading upward from several burning hulks that had once been wagons. Dead men and livestock lay scattered about the dip in the landscape, arrows protruding from them like pincushions. Several camels stood unfettered in the midst of all that destruction. About half a dozen figures in sand-colored robes characteristic of southlanders clustered around one cart. Their scimitars were sheathed at their sides, and one or two had set their bows down at their feet. They all had their attention riveted upon something going on in the cart. At that moment, a piercing cry met Jonah’s ears—the sound of a woman in abject terror.

Suddenly Jonah’s dread and anger boiled over, and he spurred his horse onward—so hard, that it brought blood to the steed’s flanks. The rest of the mounted knights followed suit, charging down the sandy embankment with a chorus of raucous war cries. But Jonah said nothing. He ground his teeth together, lowering his lance toward the robed men as they scattered, drawing steel and rushing for cover. A hastily aimed arrow sailed over his head, and then another struck the face of his raised shield, but still he thundered on. He centered his attention on one of the men who had fled from the cart toward a waiting camel. The raider swung up into the saddle as Jonah drew close. He had just grabbed the reigns when the tip of Jonah’s lance met with the tender flesh of the man’s chest. The metal-tipped spear dug into the southlander’s breast, bringing forth a great splatter of crimson. As Jonah rode by, the end of the lance splintered off, and the wounded man toppled out of the saddle. He discarded the shattered lance and reigned in the horse close to the wagon, wheeling about to draw his sword.

Before he could complete the action, a solid weight hit him from behind, bearing him to the ground and out of the saddle. Jonah hit the ground hard, tasting sand in his mouth and steel in his side as he lost his grip on his shield. One of the raiders had leapt from the cart where he had been hiding, and struck him square in the back. The knight howled and twisted, slamming his elbow into the leering heathen’s bearded face. The look of malicious glee dissolved from his face as the mailed limb hit home. His grip loosened, and Jonah squirmed out from under him, ignoring the pain lancing through his side.

He stumbled to his feet and drew his blade with a shimmer of light from the blazing sun overhead. He whirled and began to advance on his assailant, but Simon beat him to it. The old warrior had dismounted from his horse and approached unseen from behind the dagger-wielding raider. His hunting knife flashed forth as he grabbed the man by the jaw. In the blink of an eye, he drew the blade across the man’s throat, biting down into the bone. Blood turned the sand around his feet to a rusty brown color as the dieing body sank to the ground. Jonah started to look for the man he had wounded earlier.

“Look out!” Simon shouted.

Jonah turned just in time to meet the attack of another bearded raider. Their swords met with a clang, and Jonah dipped his blade down, sliding it along the scimitar to slice the tip along the man’s sword arm. He howled and grabbed the wound with his free hand, backpedaling while trying to maintain a guard stance.

Jonah advanced after him, ignoring the blood seeping down his side, and brought his foot through in a kick. Instead of hitting the man in front of him, his boot dug through the sand and kicked up a spray of grit into the raider’s face. He cried and stumbled backward. Then Jonah was on him. The knight swung his sword into the raider’s upper chest, hacking into collar bone and sternum. As he fell backward, Jonah stayed right on him. He recovered from the backward swing and plunged the weapon into the southlander’s gut, gritting his teeth in a feral grimace as he focused every bit of his pain and worry into the coup de grace.

As the light slowly died from the bearded man’s eyes, Jonah jerked the weapon from his innards and looked around, scanning for more combatants. But glancing around, he found that the scene had become deathly still. The armored knights stood over their vanquished foes, either on foot or in the saddle.

The rage faded from Jonah’s senses, leaving only frantic fear in its place. The knight whirled, calling desperately. “Elana! Garth! Marcus!” He scanned the bodies that littered the sand, hoping that he wouldn’t see any of their forms among the dead. Finally he twisted to face Simon. “Where are they?”

“I do not think they are here,” Simon said slowly. He pointed toward a mass of tracks in the sand. “There were many more riders here than the few we happened upon. The ones we found were just finishing up their work. By the look of the tracks, a sizable contingent made off toward the south west.” He pointed across the horizon to where an ominous dark brown cloud had expanded over the landscape.

“Then that is where we’re going,” Jonah said sternly, stalking toward his mount.

“My Lord—there is a sandstorm.”

“I don’t care what it is,” Jonah growled. “I’m going to track them down.”

“We won’t be able to survive the sandstorm, and it has probably already obliterated what was left of the trail. Judging by the tracks, there are more raiders than we would be able to fight. We have to return to Arnoch and obtain reinforcements.”

“My lord!” one of the other knights shouted.

Thankful to have something else to focus his attention on, Jonah turned to where the man stood at the rear of the undamaged cart. “What is it?”

The warrior’s face was obscured by his helm, yet the horror was evident in his eyes. He said nothing, only pointed to the back of the cart.

Hesitantly, Jonah moved around to the rear of the wagon, still holding his sword. What he saw made melted his grip on the weapon. The blade fell to the sand as a feeble cry esc aped his lips.

“Mother…”

He rushed forward toward the aged figure sprawled out in back of the cart. Her matronly face was bruised and swollen, hair disheveled about her aged visage. A smear of blood ran across her shoulder where a hastily drawn dagger had recently passed. Likewise, crimson stained her withered loins, bared naked to the sky amid the tatters of her once-elegant gown. She lay deathly still, her eyes closed tightly. All at once, it became apparent what the raiders had been doing.

He fought down the revulsion in his bowels and climbed up into the back. Taking of his helm, he set it by her side and moved the remains of her dress to cover her. As his hand passed over her garments, her cataract-glazed eyes snapped open and her mouth issued a blood-curdling scream. She flailed her arms, trying to scramble further back into the cart, mouth blathering in horror.

“Mother!” Jonah whispered fiercely, trying to hold onto her blood-slicked shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s me, Jonah.”

At the utterance of that name, her wild eyes took on a look of clarity, as if seeing beyond the cloud of fear for the fist time. “Jonah?” she croaked.

Jonah forced himself to remain strong, even though the greater part of him wanted to burst into tears. “Yes mother. It’s me. I’m here. What happened?”

“Oh Jonah!” she cried, burying her face in his mailed chest. “They attacked out of the desert. I don’t know where they came from. It was over so fast. They rounded up the young women and children and led them off into the desert. I—know not where. The others—the others stayed back to deal with the rest of us. They—“ She couldn’t complete the sentence, and her words degenerated into tears. Her wracking sobs shook his breast as Jonah looked up toward the heavens, asking his God one singular question.

Why?