Chapter 3

Heat warmed the skin on their faces while the chorus of pounding hammers and grindstones filled the air. Barrel-chested men walked without shirts, carrying piles of wood, coal, and metals while aprons and belts held a multitude of small tools. Manning the forges were several dwarves and two Elves, slaves to Sanctuary put to work where their talents would benefit the Holy Empire. Iron collars were locked around their necks while shimmering chains ran through the loops and anchored to the floors near each forge. The overseer, a massive blob of a man with a great belly and short, squat legs, lurked nearby, a long whip coiled at his waist and a massive meat cleaver dangling from a loop on his rope belt, eyes always on the slaves who worked the forges of the High Templar.
The dwarves were beardless, a notable mark of pride and stature within their society, and it was forbidden by slaves to the High Templar for them to grow one. Each bore scars on their faces from where once glorious bushels of facial hair had grown for years, but upon their capture the servants of the High Templar had pulled them out one handful at a time, their punishment for serving Arcanite. The Elves, oldest of all peoples, were not spared their dignity either. Long had they served Arcanite and as with the dwarves, they were stripped of a great source of pride and care: their hair. Shaven bald upon capture, their torsos were marked with tattoos and their arms were branded. They were then distributed amongst the nobles, offered up for sale to the highest bidder. Both men and women were subjugated and stripped of any pride they could muster, and frequently their mangled bodies were found in alleys and gutters naked and bound, the men castrated and the women raped. Such was the hatred for Arcanite and the sport the pious of Palanthos extracted from his servants.
One of the Dwarves weathered a quick glance toward Eriadon, his mallet stopping briefly before the overseer began making rounds, and he soon took up the chorus of the hammer once more looking busy even when Eriadon approached him without fear. He paused in his smelting, running a hand through his cropped hair. “Got some fire in your satchel, boy?”
Eriadon neared the forge and the Dwarf returned to his work, hammer pounding away on some metal. The Paladin-knight offered an inquisitive look, and the Dwarf motioned toward a small glowing circle visible within the leather satchel before returning dutifully to his work, the Overseer crossing nearby.
The man pulled free the medallion given to him by Aliquem, the glowing disc intensifying for a brief moment and then went dull and lifeless once more. “By Paladine’s beard…” The Dwarf looked up to Eriadon expectantly, the Paladin surprised by the Dwarf’s expression. “I’d take that over to the Elves, Paladin,” He said quickly, casting a look over his shoulder at the approaching Overseer. “It don’t seem like no trinket just anyone gets here.”
A thick whip cracked against the Dwarf’s back as the overseer noticed him speaking. He went to strike the dwarf again, but his whip stalled as Eriadon shot him a look of warning. The overseer said nothing to Eriadon, knowing the Paladin-knights that descended into the armory were petitioners for knighthood and far above their own stature. He shot a look of warning to the Dwarf, making a motion with his hand that caused the Dwarf to expedite his work, his features grim as he hammered out a sheet of metal ore.
Eriadon took his leave of the Dwarf, walking toward the trio of Elves. His eyes found Moradrim; the man gripped a massive halberd in his hands and let loose a satisfied howl, swinging it back and forth to test its balance and poise. Triannon, meanwhile, was eying a large two-handed sword with satisfaction and both men quickly turning on one another and engaging in a quick sparring match, the sound of steel striking with each skillfully parried blow.
The Elves looked up when Eriadon stopped just before their forges, bowing their heads slightly and quickly returning to work as the overseer came near. “Off with you, I’ll have a word with these two here, grunt.” Eriadon snapped haughtily to the overseer, “Go on, least I send you up to the Praetor.”
The overseer fled from him then, rolls of fat jiggling as he rushed away not wanting an appearance before the Praetor. Not many did. The Praetor and his council would not tolerate the overseer’s interference with the business of a student, especially one about to depart Sanctuary. One would have a better chance pleading life out of death than turning the mind of the Praetor if a student was challenged by a servant, and breaching that code of conduct frequently led to the servant being sent into the sewers or worse. Worse, in the case of a servant overstepping his bounds was a swift departure to the regulars on the western front.
As the forge master retreated to a small room, Eriadon stepped toward the Elf that had looked his way upon entering the forges. A woman next to him, naked from her waist up, eyed the human suspiciously, her lean and muscled body glowing in the light of the forge. “I was told by the fellow over there to come here and speak with you about this,” Eriadon showed them the medallion. “I received this from brother Aliquem.”
“A gift from Aliquem, hmm? You must be the student he told me about a few days back…the tolerant one.” The Elf said with a slight smile, motioning the woman away, but not before Eriadon saw her brilliant green eyes light up and a smile flash on her face. “Not like being tolerant is a difficult task in this place, just a rare ability amongst the noble trash – begging your pardon for my words, Paladin.” He corrected himself immediately, Eriadon shaking his head dismissively.
“I won’t fault a man for speaking the truth.” Eriadon replied with a smile.
The Elf seemed a bit more at ease, even the presence of the woman nearby seemed altered, and the Elf motioned for the Paladin-knight to hand him the medallion. “I haven’t seen one of these in many years … a seal of Paladine. Not since I was a Warden, but that’s not something I’ll go into...a long, boring story, probably get you hanged for hearing it. This seal…did Aliquem tell you anything about it?” Eriadon shook his head, “No? Pity. It was forged years ago during the second darkness. These were held by the leaders of Paladine’s armies.”
He took the seal into his hands, studying it for a moment before casting it into the fires where the medallion began to glow brightly once more. Satisfied, the Elf fetched the seal with the tongs and dropped it into a bucket of water, a squealing hiss and steam lifting upward from the pail.
The Elf waited a moment before reaching into the warm water, taking the medallion from the container, the surface of the seal devoid of the grime it was covered in when Aliquem had given it to Eriadon. The Paladin-knight studied the shining metal as the Elf polished it with a cloth, the brilliant shield on one side and the tree, sword, and shield as radiant as if it had just been crafted. The Elf handed it back to Eriadon. “Quite the artifact here…doubt if even your High Templar has seen one of these.”
Eriadon studied the medallion in a new light. Perhaps it would bring him a little luck in the days to come. The Elf pointed to the decorated buckle of Eriadon’s belt. “That is the new seal, adopted by High Templar Mathos after he put down the uprisings. See the gauntleted hand, the clenched fist and the sword? It was a shift in the thought which went into those declared to be Arcanites…the hard fist and the blade, quite oppressive if you ask me…but what would a slave know of oppression?” He returned briefly to his work. “They don’t even hold a flame to the glory that the seal in your hand possesses…quite the history lesson that could be told based on it alone, but once again it would only accompany a hanging.”
“Indeed,” Eriadon commented softly, “Surely these are documented somewhere; someone still has to know about them. If they were the old symbols of Paladine, it should be in one of the books of records.”
The Elf shook his head. “Few knew what the original seals of Paladine looked like, much less if they even believed that they were real. It is possible that they have all been forgotten...the Tree, the Shield, and the Sword have long been standing representations of Paladine, but not since the death of Kathos when they went missing did any know just exactly how they looked. That was when the upturned sword was adopted by Erathan, Kathos’ son, though I believe that each High Templar has just started adopting a new seal to mark their period as the lord of the Faith.”
A yelp ripped their eyes from the seal and to the she-elf, the overseer having returned and taking a moment to grope and fondle the female Elf, her protests going unheeded while the obese forge master took pleasure from her struggles. Eriadon took a step toward them, “Unhand her.” He ordered directly, and the overseer tossed the Elf at him, her chains rattling as Eriadon caught her against his body. She shrugged away from him, covering herself against the unwanted violations.
The overseer laughed, his eyes falling to the small trinket and staring at it momentarily. He took a handful of steps toward them, but Moradrim and Triannon appeared beside him, both holding their new weapons and looking for a bit of sport it seemed. “Seems you’ve overstepped your bounds, fatty.” Moradrim said as he lowered the halberd. “Why not move aside and let the man place his order.”
“Come to think of it,” Triannon echoed, flicking free a small punch dagger and pressing it against the man’s left buttock. “I don’t much enjoy seeing a woman handled as such, slave or no…if you touch her again and I hear of it, I personally guarantee that your death will not be so pleasurable.”
Triannon gave him a hard shove and the two Paladins led him away, leaving Eriadon and the Elf to their conversation. “Thank you, Paladin.” The Elf said. “Not many who’d stand up for a slave.”
Eriadon eyed the woman, her hands visibly shaking as she returned to work. “Slave or no, she shouldn’t have to endure that.” He glanced down to the seal in his hand. “Why would Aliquem give this to me?” He asked. “If he’s trying to put it in the hands of someone who will be seen and perhaps return our Faith to what it once was, why not give it to someone more widely known or at least someone of nobility? As this place likes to remind me each day, what am I but an orphan? He called it a lucky charm but you seem to think differently about it.”
The Elf shrugged as he took the medallion from Eriadon’s hand and placed it in on his anvil, quickly taking a clay bowl resting in the coals of the furnace before proceeding to pour a small amount of liquid metal into a notch in the center of a gleaming hilt belonging to a blackened, soot-covered blade. The Elf pressed firmly on the seal as it made contact with the molten metal, the shield facing upward. Beneath his thumbs the seal flared and pulsed, and the Elf seemed satisfied with its positioning before dropping the hilt into the cool bucket of water on the floor.
In moments it was fused into the hilt of the sword with a final hissing, and the Elf pulling the weapon from the waters. “That’s the key question then isn’t it? Why give it to you if it were something more than a simple charm?” The Elf asked as he began sharpening the blade on a grinding stone, pausing to wipe at the blade with a rag that pulled away the soot and grime. “I will tell you that this seal was one of three crafted at the same time. Maybe if you find the other two in your journeys outside this place then perhaps why Aliquem saw fit to give it to you will become all the clearer. It couldn’t hurt to look after all. I mean, they are relics of your faith.”
The Elf took his hammer and pounded loudly on the blade, smoke and sparks flying from its surface. He pushed the blade into the fires once more, shaking it loosely in his hand. “Come back in a few moments and I’ll have this finished for you…thank Aliquem for letting us know you’d be down this way, otherwise this could very well have taken days to complete.” He motioned toward the Dwarf. “Head back over to Stumpy there, he can set you up with some of the better armor in this place…believe me, there’s very few pieces he puts all his skill into.”
Eriadon moved back across the smithy toward the Dwarf he had spoken with earlier, the latter hammering away at a curved sheet of metal. Sparks flew as the hammer crashed down again, and his gnarled hands gripped the pliers tightly, dunking the metal into a bath of water. He cast the ends of the tools back into the fire, turning to the returning Paladin-knight. “Saw your friends roughing up the overseer for what he did to the she-elf. Can’t say anything good will come of it for us, but least there are a few of you not as bad as the others…did Tree Huggers give you anything good?” He asked softly. Eriadon nodded his head, looking around toward the armor stands. “They said you could help with some things that aren’t nearly as shoddy as what’s hanging.”
“Shoddy!” He spat, tone of his voice noting the insult therein. “My work is hardly shoddy; uninspired perhaps, but let you spit out chain of rings and plate armor as a slave and see what you’re willing to cloth your oppressors in. Findalin!” The dwarf tossed a scrap piece of iron across the forges toward the Elf, latter smirking in return. “If my work is shoddy than yours ain’t fit for a goblin to pick its teeth with!” He kicked a stack of metal and armor piled next to the forge reveling beneath it a woven suit of chain. “Here” He said, handing Eriadon the tightly-knit armor of chain. “This will hold up better than much of the plate stuff we send out.” The Dwarf shrugged, looking harmlessly side to side. “What do I care if these dogs die?”
Eriadon said nothing, frowning slightly at the Dwarf’s admission, but the man had a point and Eriadon agreed with him to an extent. He cared little if something happened to Pharazon, but if something happened to his friends...
The Paladin reached down and took a few armored shirts from the pile. “For my friends.” He said with a smile as he motioned toward Triannon and Moradrim, the pair leaving the small room adjacent to the forges. Before the door closed, they could see the unconscious overseer leaning against the back wall.
“You’ll want the leather overcoat too.” The dwarf pointed toward the leather jerkins piled in the corner. “Will help absorb the blades should they strike you, but you all ready know that I am sure. Now get ye gone, and I hope never to see you back in here again.”
Eriadon spent some time rummaging about the leather hides in the corner of the room, the striking and pounding of hammers on anvils ringing in pitched refrains to which he dutifully selected what would fit his comrades. Even to his untrained eye, he could see the subtle flaws that could cause a catastrophic end in the leather working, and while a growing part of him wished to speak to the Praetor of Sanctuary about the quality of the work being done in the forges, both the Elves and Dwarves within the forges seemed to know Aliquem, and they had actually helped him more after that admission. For Eriadon that gave pause to his suspicions and decided to give Aliquem the benefit of the doubt, knowing that the monk would have reported it himself if he thought there was any true harm behind less-than optimal weapons and armor.
“What you got there?” Moradrim asked as he and Triannon returned, almost missing the chain shirt tossed his way. “Better quality than the plate armor; put this on and ditch the other stuff.”
Moradrim looked over the new material skeptically, tugging on the chains and eying the leather carefully. “Well, can’t say I trust it to deflect an arrow, but if you trust your life to it, then I will too.”
Both men soon tossed aside their plate armor in favor of the lighter chain, placing it and the leather coats on overtop before returning their Paladin-knight tabards to their bodies. “Not bad.” Triannon admitted as he turned and stretched. “But it really doesn’t seem like it will stop a blade.”
“It will do that at least.” A voice said from behind them as the Elf Eriadon had spoken with appeared, stretched to the limit of his chains with a sheathed blade in his hand. “Your weapon, Paladin-knight Eriadon…may you wield it well in Paladine’s name against the darkness of the Arcanite.
Eriadon took the blade and drew it from its sheath, the cold steel reflecting his youthful face in its mirrored surface. Deep runes were cut into the steel, and Eriadon pointed toward them. “What’s with the runes?” He asked.
“Not sure…they appeared shortly after the seal was set into the hilt. Could try reading them myself, but then again why would I if I could?” His last hostilities were a far cry from his earlier words, almost as if he realized upon handing over the blade that he had outfitted his oppressors with a valuable weapon.
The Elf sulked back to the forges, casting a wary glance over his shoulder, and Eriadon watched him move away, a twinge of guilt rising in him for his situation. “Didn’t see that kicking around.” Moradrim commented, his own weapon looking less than spectacular now. “Who’d you bribe?”
“The High Templar.” Eriadon replied his voice stern and serious as he sheathed the blade. The others looked to him flabbergasted, jaws parted slightly in awe. “Well damn, Eri, if he’s just handing things out now point me in the right direction!”
Triannon laughed and tapped his blade against the pole of Moradrim’s halberd. “The High Templar is handing out weapons…yah and my mother’s the Priestess of Paladine.” Triannon said with a laugh, his eyes passing back to the female elf. Moradrim caught his drifting gaze, and the man’s smile went from ear to ear. “I warned you didn’t I, Eri? And now look, Triannon’s gone all doe-eyed for an Elf without her ever saying a word to him!”
The human snapped his gaze away from the scarred and tattooed body of the Elven woman, immediately jumping on a nervous defensive. “Hardly. I was just making sure she was all right after that.”
“Yah and I’ve heard that people have to pay women to leer at them like you were.”
Triannon launched himself at Moradrim, the youngest member of their trio grabbing Moradrim and dropping him into a headlock, squeezing against his neck and laughing. “You give up?” He asked, Moradrim beginning to sputter and spit. “Mora?”
The man fell lifeless to the ground, and Triannon gave a horrified look to Eriadon, kneeling beside his friend. “Mora? Moradrim can you hear me?” He tapped the man’s smooth cheek, and found no response.
“See if he’s breathing.” Eriadon offered.
The worried face of the man deepened as he lowered his ear to Moradrim’s lips when suddenly the other man let out a terrifying scream that sent Triannon reeling from the body gripping his ears, the other man laughing hysterically. “Y-you should have seen your face!” He said, rolling over onto his side with tears forming in his eyes. He mocked the face Triannon had made. “I had you!”
“Sweet Paladine Mora,” Triannon wriggled a finger in his ear. “I’m not going to hear right for a week.”
Voices echoed from the stairwell ahead of them, Moradrim shaking his head and taking Eriadon’s hand to help him up as Pharazon’s voice lifted above the others. “Here comes the throng.” Moradrim stated dismally, securing his halberd to his back.
Pharazon appeared on the final stair with Lord Ralis, Falastar, Wert, and the final Paladin-knight, a man named Remus. Ralis spoke lightly of the reward of the Templar of Taringor, the others all talking and joking with smiles and confident, boisterous laughs trailing like hounds looking for scraps behind Pharazon, an obvious frontrunner for the position.
“Ah, Eriadon, Moradrim, Triannon, good to see you’re all ready to go.” Ralis greeted them eying their gear somewhat dismally. “Must say I pictured each of you as the more statuesque Paladins: gleaming white plate armor with the fist and sword boldly displayed across the chest piece…but to each his own. Chain armor is sure to garner you a few copper pieces from the masses who will surely think you squires to these men here.”
Rousing laughter followed from Pharazon and his lackeys, the latter moving immediately toward the armor with the greatest shine and polish. Behind their jeers and taunts toward them, Eriadon felt the desire to warn them about the subpar armor quickly slipping away, and turned his thoughts to more important matters. “Excuse me, Lord Ralis, but I need to speak with brother Aliquem before our departure.” He asked, the urge to consult his mentor about the seal overwhelming his better judgment.
Ralis lifted his hand and shook his head. “Afraid not, Paladin-Knight Eriadon, brother Aliquem is meeting with the Praetor and the council and will be quite engaged for a time long after we have left this place. But if you wish, I may answer your question.”
“Arrogant bastard…” Moradrim mumbled out loud, realizing his error and looking to Ralis with wide eyes. Eriadon stepped in quickly with a laugh. “What he means, Lord Ralis, is that he believes the smiths here to be arrogant in their works, thinking they produce the finest of arms here in Sanctuary than can be found across Dunvunion. Is this true? I could think of no other smithy to rival it, though some say your own in Taringor is quite elaborate.”
“Yes…” Ralis gave a hard stare-down of Moradrim, and the Paladin-knight wisely avoided his gaze. “Well, Eriadon, unlike many other Overlords in the service of Paladine, the Arcanite followers we face are more terrorists to our people, and such actions require better arms and armor. The forges in Taringor were constructed by the Dwarves themselves hundreds of years ago when Taringor was first built, why the city predates even the Second Darkness! My forge masters are the finest in the lands, not some grouping of slaves.” He motioned toward the Dwarves and Elves, looking busy in his presence and ignoring his words. “You see Eriadon, where the Holy Army in the West faces a great host such armies will come at you head on. The foes we face are of a less than savory nature and would sooner kill you in your sleep than stand boldly in the light. Better arms and armor are simply a necessity.”
Ralis looked to Triannon, the man still wriggling a finger in his ear attempting to regain his ability to hear after Moradrim’s prank, completely unaware of the Overlord’s curious gaze that settled over him. “What in Paladine’s name is the matter with you?”
Triannon caught sight of him, his words a hollow blur to him. “What?” He shouted, the Overlord taking a step back in surprise. “I’m sorry, what?”
The Overlord looked away slowly, his hand coming to rest on Eriadon’s shoulder which he tapped gently. “Ah…a bit slow in the head is he? Well good for you Eriadon, not many men would take such a…oddity under their wing.” He paused, licking his lips. “If, by chance, you wish him to remain behind…”
“No, Lord Ralis, he will be fine.” Eriadon narrowed his gaze at Triannon and then at Moradrim who was digging at his nose. “Sometimes they simply forget their manners, but in a pinch I’ll have no one else at my side then these two.”
“Well, it’s your life, not mine.” Ralis’ eyes moved slowly from them, waiting impatiently for the others to finish collecting their armor.
From a room at the end of the forges, Pharazon strode forward in the splendor of his family’s name and title, his armor obviously not made within Sanctuary as it bore both the crests of his house and of Paladine, his sword and shield were of flawless steel, complete with a cloak that tucked beneath the shoulder guards emblazoned with another large family crest across its back. With deliberate poise, he slipped a pair of leather gloves over his hands, completing his armor and looking to Ralis with a confident smile.
“Ah, sister-son!” Ralis embraced Pharazon warmly. “You would do even your father proud. Perhaps soon you will join him in the Holy Army of the High Templar and fight at his side.” Ralis looked up to everyone. “But for now, you and everyone else fight for me in the defense of Dunvunion and the southern marches. Come, our horses await and Arcanite does not sleep!”
“Sister-son?” Moradrim said quietly as the others walked away. “Ralis is Pharazon’s uncle?”
Eriadon nodded, slapping his back and following after the others with a smile. “See Mora, things just got interesting.” He said over his shoulder as Moradrim looked to Triannon with a slack jaw and a loss of words.
Triannon grinned silently, trailing slowly after Eriadon and Moradrim, giving one last look to the Elven woman who worked her forge, his mind a mess of contradiction and conflict.

Chapter 2

Practically thrown from the room, Eriadon slung his leather satchel over his shoulder and placed the trinket in one of the side pouches, two figures rising from a nearby bench to join him as he exhaled softly and walked toward them. “What did Aliquem want?” A tall, solidly built man asked. “You’re usually in there a lot longer.” He said with coal-black eyes peering curiously at Eriadon.
Eriadon pulled the rolled scrolls from his pack and handed one to the curious man and another to the silent one. “We’re in the running to become Templars in service to Ralis.” Eriadon replied, his voice holding a subtle sarcasm to it. “Looks like you didn’t get sent north with Sasha, Mora. Hate to say it, but I don’t think you ever really had a choice in the matter.”
Moradrim, Mora to his friends, hastily broke the seal and read his orders, a soft curse emitting from his lips before scratching his head in frustration and crumpling the edict. “I didn’t even petition for this position.” He stated. “I’d rather have been sent to the western front than south with Ralis. What of you, Triannon?”
Triannon looked down at his orders saying at first, and he soon tucked the scroll into his belt and shrugged his broad shoulders. “I don’t really care where I go.” He said. “Just whatever gets us out of Sanctuary and into the world…I’m tired of this place: twenty years of training on how to be a brute.” Eriadon elbowed him sharply, an open door nearby containing several congregating Templar-Hunters. “Sorry, how to enlighten others with our actions.” Triannon corrected himself. “You’d think they’d rather send us west to the frontier with the bulk of the Holy Army and not to some tedious clerical position where the most excitement we’ll have to look forward to each day is signing a death warrant for some heretic. Isn’t that what they want for us orphans?”
“Well,” Eriadon began, stairs dropping down before them leading another floor, “I could be to blame for your orders. Aliquem knew where I’d be sent and told me he wanted me to have some company…of course with Ralis’ little game, he wanted me to have a few people watching my back.”
Moradrim slapped Eriadon on his back. “Hey, if you want to be a Templar that’s fine with me, I’ll keep some Arcanite from sticking a knife in your back if that’s what it takes.”
“Ha! Eriadon? A Templar?”
Heads turned toward an approaching group, the lead clean-shaven and handsome. His eyes were a bright blue and hair a golden blond; tall and lanky with an arrogant gait about him. As he came closer, Eriadon throat burned, bitter bile welling up, such was the offending nature that Eriadon felt toward the man known as Pharazon.
“It will come down to who knows who, and both my parents have seats on the Praetor’s council…what do your parents have?” Pharazon stopped and smirked. “That’s right…I guess that’s why they let you in: they’re land owners after all.”
Laughter erupted behind him, and Pharazon folded his arms across his chest as a shorter, more rounded man beside him nodded his head in agreement accompanied by loud, obnoxious laughter, “Because they’re dead, right Pharazon? Because the only land they own is what they’re buried in?”
Pharazon’s smile faded as he looked to his fellow reluctantly, raising his hand prepared to strike. “Yes you dimwit. Geez, you’re almost as bad as they are Falastar.”
Falastar’s face turned a deep shade of crimson, causing the mole on his cheek look almost ready to pop, “Though I suppose since you’re not a charity case Falastar, such can be overlooked. Not sure what is worse…being an orphan, here only by the kindness of Paladine, or a simple charity-case to make the rest of us look better.”
Several of the nearby students looked down to their pale yellow robes, shifting uncomfortably within the garments reserved for those from the peasantry. “Charity case?” Moradrim growled, stepping closer to Pharazon. Eriadon quickly placed a hand on his chest to stop him from advancing further toward the noble, holding his friend’s anger in check.
“That’s right Eriadon; put a leash on your dog.” Pharazon said to another chorus of laughter, his friends slapping hands gleefully.
“You forget, Pharazon,” Eriadon stated as a crowd began to gather around them, whispered words of warning directed at Pharazon as Eriadon stepped closer. “With more than half of this place being ‘charity cases’ or orphans, it leaves you and your lackeys at the shallow end of the pond with little to stand on if we choose to act against you. I am sure very few would find you in the deep recesses of this place if we wished to hide the body of some arrogant son of a-”
Eriadon stepped forward before he felt a strong hand on his shoulder, and instantly he gripped the arm and turned to dispose of the aggressor when he came face to face with Lord Ralis. Hushed words followed excitedly in the crowd before they all wisely dispersed, all save the ten that had gathered near an open doorway, each holding a scroll ordering them to accompany Lord Ralis. “I’ll ask you not to raise your hand in violence within these hallowed halls, Eriadon.” Ralis said roughly, releasing Eriadon’s arm. “I trust you to remember that: unwarranted violence is not something I will tolerate.”
“Violence?” Eriadon asked. “I was trying to stop it from happening. Pharazon, on the other hand, seems to want nothing more than to lose his teeth.”
Ralis looked over to Pharazon and his eyes narrowed sharply as the latter folded his arms and merely smiled, puffing out his chest as he did. “Pharazon,” Ralis said with a shake of his head. “Try to behave among the orphans…they still have a lot to learn of civilized conversation.” He lifted his hand to silence Eriadon’s protests. “And you and your kind will have to come to terms with the truth someday…if a few words will boil your blood, you won’t last long in trying to spread the word of Paladine to the infidels, especially when their threats are those of murder…perhaps I was wrong about you, Eriadon. Maybe you are not ready.”
No one said another word on the matter, and the Lord Ralis motioned toward the empty room nearby. “I will say this one last time…put your differences behind you from this point forward or you will be a liability both to yourself and to those with you. Besides, you will all need your strength for the days to come. Enter, and I will explain to you the situation.”
One by one they filed into the small room and slid into creaking chairs, many of the Paladin-knights leaning rather complacently on the wooden surfaces of the desks as Lord Ralis moved to a rather decrepit projector in the center of the room. He flipped a few switches before stepping past the projector and wiped down the chalk board to clear the surface. A small stone resting on a pedestal behind the lens flared to life. The lights around the room mystically grew dim, and a picture appeared on the chalk board at the front of the room, distorted and out of focus. A few quick twists of the knob by Ralis, and the portrait of a powerful-looking man with a strong chin and jaw line, dark eyes and stubble came into focus.
“This,” Ralis said as he paced the floor, stepping through the beam of light. “This is Cid Blackwell, self-proclaimed Lord of Dunvunion. He is calling himself the true vessel of Paladine, an absurd notion if ever I’ve heard, but he seems to be dredging up more trouble of late…apparently the murdering of my last Templar and his Paladin-knights has given him the quaint notion that no one can stop his heresy.”
A few hissed a condemning phrase beneath their breath while others, like Eriadon, remained stone-faced, studying the man on the board before them who, even captured in a drawing, seemed incredibly lifelike and determined. “He has been spotted in the southern marches rallying others to him under the guise he follows Paladine – though his choice of companions would state otherwise. He has been seen in the company of Elves and Dwarves, even a scant offering of Gnomes and brutish half-Orcs.”
Moradrim leaned over and gave Eriadon a nudge, “Elves huh? Better watch out…their women are supposed to be more beautiful than any human. You remember brother Gibraltar? Said he had actually met an Elf and she seduced him without ever saying a word. Could you imagine, just a look and she’s got you.” Moradrim said with a soft laugh. “Course knowing Gibraltar, that fat bastard, probably wishes someone would seduce him, and the butcher is all ready married-“
“Something funny, Moradrim?” Ralis demanded impatiently, his explanation having ended at the disruption.
“No sir, just a little anxious to go bring a few Elves to the justice of Paladine.” He replied with a serious expression on his face.
“Indeed.” Ralis commented doubtfully before slowly leading back into orders. “The High Templar has requested that since the Holy army wages war in the west and the recent death of my entire core of Paladin-knights that I should take the best that this place has to offer and charge them with his capture. You all are among the top recruits here, skilled in combat, diplomacy, and well versed in our history and beliefs. Most of you have been eyed by the Templar-hunters for assignment or my counterpart in Lord Inviolate, but such is the nature of this mission that I could select my team regardless of petitioning rights.”
Falastar leaned back in his chair, exposing his hand toward Pharazon and the man took it with a confident smile, shaking it in self-recognized greatness.
“I have been instructed not to bring him to harm, yet,” Ralis paused as he rolled a small dial on the projector causing a map to appear on the board. “But as I said earlier, my Templar and his Paladin-knights were slain after trying to bring him in for questioning some months ago. Some of their bodies were not even found such is Blackwell’s villainy. I will not comment further on the bodies we did find…just know that both I and the High Templar view this mission as one of great risk.”
“Now then, with great risk comes great reward.” Ralis said with a firm nod. “The one who apprehends Blackwell will become the new Templar for the southern fiefdom and Taringor. It is not a duty to be taken lightly, for my realm is full of dangers that you will face each day. Just as the reward should be taken seriously, Blackwell should not be taken lightly…he knows what he is doing, and the fear he promotes makes his followers extremely dangerous. We believe that his strength lies in his words, the forked tongue of Arcanite is strong in him, and he leaves his dirty work to his allies.”
He turned his gaze back to the map and adjusted the dials once more, the slightly blurred picture rapidly coming to focus. When the knobs stopped turning, the picture dropped out of alignment once more and Ralis struck the projector violently, the picture coming in clear. “Now then, Blackwell and his followers were last spotted here, in the village of Gren. We believe he is operating out of the Derchin forest north of the Argyle, but he has also frequented a Dwarf settlement near the Cloud Peaks and his roving band moves across the Seldanine robbing and kidnapping at will. Each of these areas will be thoroughly searched, and I tell you now that aside from the position of Templar, there are many great rewards to be had from the High Templar himself.”
There were excited words exchanged between Pharazon and Falastar, their companion, a stick of a man with rat-like features named Wert joining in their excitement. Eriadon merely rolled his eyes, the sentiment echoed by Moradrim. Three women looked over their way and smiled, neither Moradrim nor Eriadon missing the look of annoyed disgust as Pharazon snapped his fingers and brought the gazes of the women back to him.
A stifled snore caught Moradrim’s attention as Triannon was sleeping in his seat, the large man nudging Eriadon to rouse him before Ralis looked their way. “Any questions?” Ralis asked, the projector going dim.
“Overlord,” Pharazon started boldly. “So this position and chance is open to all here? Why not leave the dogs here and take the proper nobility? Leave the three mongrels over there…let the seven of us take care of it and send them back to their monks.”
Moradrim shot out of his chair, closing the space between himself and Pharazon in two steps, and landed a solid fist against Pharazon’s jaw, desks and chairs flying backward as Paladins scrambled to break up the scuffle. Moradrim landed a few more blows as Pharazon covered himself from harm, his cries for help filling the chamber, and it took Eriadon, Triannon, and all three women to hold Moradrim and back him away from Pharazon’s fetal-positioned body. Ralis’ voice boomed out over the chaos to little effect, and both Wert and Falastar knelt next to Pharazon while calling for Moradrim’s head.
Eriadon’s turned on Moradrim once he was restrained, “Moradrim, you idiot!” He started, but where his friend had begun to calm down, the situation deteriorated further.
Pharazon shot up from the ground spitting insults and charging across the room toward Moradrim, Eriadon and Triannon exchanging looks wondering if Pharazon was serious in his efforts. His face was red and nose bloodied but Pharazon drew nearer, hurling foul language at the orphan while drawing a dagger from its scabbard on his waist and lifting it menacingly toward Moradrim.
Eriadon rushed at him then, releasing Moradrim in quick order and tackling Pharazon to the ground, sending the dagger skipping across the floor as Pharazon threw a few weak punches against Eriadon as they tussled on the ground, the orphaned Paladin wrapping his arm about Pharazon’s neck and squeezing as the other’s thrashing quickly began to subside.
Seeing the situation deteriorating in favor of the nobles, Ralis intervened. He crossed quickly to Eriadon, reaching down and releasing the hold the man had on Pharazon and tossed him to the side. A sputtering and gasping Pharazon was hauled back to his feet by the Overlord, and Ralis slapped Pharazon hard when the man continued to throw insults toward the orphans. An infuriated look crossed Pharazon’s features, but his objection ceased as Ralis lifted his hand once again, a final warning.
The Templar Overlord wheeled around to Moradrim, his hand waving menacingly. “Your final warning, Paladin-knight. Next time, you will stand before the Triumvirate for your transgressions, and only the gallows will wait for you after that. You have struck a noble, granted he deserved such, but regardless: outside of these walls, Paladin-knight or no, you will adhere to the laws laid down by Paladine himself. You are by station the lowest level of nobility; beneath those of the same title should they have birthing. Do not forget this, Moradrim.”
All eyes were fixed upon the Overlord who straightened his tunic and belt, his breathing heavy and labored, waving the gathered Paladin-knights dismissively toward the door. “Triannon, take your troublemaking friends to the armory. The rest of you will wait for me outside. We will depart in one hour from the stables – do not be late.”
Eriadon practically shoved Moradrim from the room, the latter stumbling as he fought to regain his composure. Triannon fought hard not to laugh, shaking his head and cracking frequent smiles to Moradrim’s unyielding cursing and insults, the latter moving down the hallway and kicking a bench in frustration. “Are you trying to get sent to the Triumvirate?” Eriadon demanded in a harsh whisper. “Calm down Mora, he’s nothing but an inbred scab. Leave him and his ilk to their positions and titles. We are one step closer to being free of this place to see what the High Templar has been shielding us from all these years, one step closer to having control over our lives.”
Triannon looked up, one of the woman from the chamber passing before them and giving him a soft smile, flipping her dark brown hair in his direction. The two remaining women called to her, giggling as they passed by the three men and Triannon’s gaze stared at their backs, following them down the corridor taking more than a little pleasure in ogling the noble-born women that would be traveling with them.
His eyes were peeled from the retreating forms as voices lifted from the room, he snapped suddenly to Eriadon and Moradrim and they all moved quietly toward the room. The voices spoke in hushed, secretive tones, Pharazon receiving what seemed like alternate orders from the Templar Overlord. “I don’t care who you think you are. You’re not near capable enough to take on any of those three yet. Keep your blade sheathed unless you’re certain you’ll strike a killing blow, otherwise it’s your body they’ll be sending into the Temple and believe me you better hope your dead if you’re sent there. You are no match for them: let the orphans do the dirty work and you keep your eyes open for your chance.”
“Why bring them with us?” Pharazon hissed irritably. “I don’t trust them, you shouldn’t either. And Eriadon, he’s been training with that monk in the north tower for years now, nobody knows what goes on in there. That old codger should have been sacked years ago, for all we know he’s a damn Arcanite.”
“Aliquem has his uses, and the High Templar and the Templar-Hunters have been watching him for years. Let us worry about Aliquem and the other monks. As for the orphans, stay your temper and your insults. You’ll be no good to anyone dead, and they might find killing you a well-warranted trade off. Paladine teaches us to respect and understand all aspects of life, even that of our personal enemies. Remember that: you never know who might save your skin one day…perhaps even be one of those bastard children.”
The trio scattered as their conversation continued on another subject, Moradrim fuming. He trailed after Eriadon, the man leading them down the hall when they passed by Wert and Falastar. They leaned against an open window that looked out into the courtyard, and their conversation stopped when Moradrim passed, resuming once they were out of earshot as Eriadon and his fellows descended down the corridor toward the armory, Triannon casting a wary glance over his shoulder, the men staring at him with murder in their eyes.

Chapter 1

An ominous bell chimed from the belfry of a tall tower on the eastern edge of the courtyard of an otherwise silent square, the hour tapped out by a massive hammer and sent pigeons scattering to the overcast skies. Voices spoke in hushed, revered tones; small groups sat beneath the cloudy sky of the tree-lined courtyard, the occasional laugh or snicker quickly hushed by others, words silenced like they held some great secret that no others were privy to. Ancient trees and old stone monuments surrounded the courtyard; living quarters were through the exit on the south end, classrooms and the training hall to the east beneath the belfry, and a mess hall on the west end. To the north, ultimately the largest and most archaic portion of the compound, the shrine of Paladine opened in welcoming fashion for the disillusioned to come and worship. Situated beneath the sky in a stone parlor before massive archways that led to the priory and other hallways of the citadel, an effigy to the mighty God Paladine was carved from marble and stood in the middle of a once-majestic fountain, his sword held aloft before him while his left hand held that of a woman huddled amongst a group of people, the statue leading them onward.
Those with the courtyard would have sat on the edges of the fountain were the water not stagnant in the pool or the spigots so clogged with algae, but through time and lack of care for the monument, the once cascading waves of water that brought life to the statue was gone, leaving only a green ichor floating on top of the fetid water. Much of the marble had chipped and cracked over time, few knowing the date the statue was erected or even what it represented. On a plaque affixed on the base of the monument, moss grew over the words etched to the surface; the few chiseled letters visible to the eye announced a rather dismal creed:
‘…END THE WEAK’
Those nearest to the fountain clothed in dark navy robes seemed to take no notice of the decaying fountain and disillusionment toward the deity of the Holy city of Palanthos was common place. In fact, much of the cloister known as Sanctuary had fallen into disrepair, her outcroppings ancient, walls and statues testaments to men and women of a time long gone, a world where Arcanite was a real threat and walked among them. Sanctuary was built following his destruction, a monument to Paladine and his teachings at the end of the Second Darkness. A pigeon landed on the head of the statue, cooing for a moment before flying away, leaving a small glob of its excrement behind to join the countless other spots that colored the effigy. It was a fitting testament to how far the faith had fallen.
It was a mixed breed inside the walls of Sanctuary. Some were there by birth and right of stature, others were orphans with nowhere else to go, and some because their families petitioned the nobility to gain their children entrance, a parent’s love to secure their child a chance at a better future. It was a division that was clear in almost every way; those with connections to the outside were practically worshipped by those desperate for approval, and these peasants sought the friendship of the nobility as a means to get out of Sanctuary once their training was finished. The nobles were on the fast-track for becoming Templar-knights where if selected for knighthood, the petitioning Paladins-knights of Sanctuary would serve a Templar for a number of years before becoming a Templar in their own right. For those exceptional Templars, they would be conscripted into the Holy Army as officers, taking to the field of battle against Arcanite’s minions beyond the Cloud Mountains to the west. For those of the unlucky majority, they would remain Paladin-knights, bound for the front lines of a war that had waged for the better part of four hundred years, defending a relic of the old world against the mindless creatures of the enemy. While this placed them in a better company than the conscripted regulars, once a Paladin-knight was sent to the front their chances of becoming more than a mercenary for the merchant companies were gone. If they survived.
And yet the path of war was not the only path those of Sanctuary sought. For some, those who were blessed of Paladine in the spiritual sense, they would progress within the walls of Sanctuary until their sixteenth year. After that, the children would be sent to the Temple of Paladine where they would eventually become monks and priests and lead the Faith, their words filling the followers of Paladine with hope and light in the ever-dominating darkness of recent years. Where once the High Templar’s great crusade one cold night nearly a quarter of a century ago had filled so many with great hope that Arcanite was gone, they were now left with a sense of dread and despair, the darkness of Arcanite growing in strength once more.
In this conflict, many of the dis-enlightened had come to understand that there simply could be no end to the fighting, and that the Dark God would muster his strength until there was simply no one left to fight. Where the forces of Paladine and the Arcanite clashed with such ruthless animosity, only complete genocide, it seemed, would end the fighting, and while few had the audacity to speak such condemning thoughts, everyone knew it was only a matter of time. It was here, in Sanctuary, where the youth of Dunvunion were trained as holy warriors’ day in and day out, learning the art of war and tact, the skills of combat and fighting, where amidst the drabble there were a few shining lights destined for more than their peers. The strongest survived, the weak simply could not.
Whereas the compound known as Sanctuary was perhaps one of the most ill-kept of all that the High Templar presided over in Palanthos, the Palace of the High Templar at the city center wherein the divine faith was centered shone in brilliant white marble with gold plates on every statue of warriors from glorious days past. Great names of men who stood against Arcanite in the Second Darkness were as venerated as Paladine himself, though none, not even the deity’s own effigy, stood in such grand and revered stature as that of Kathos, the first High Templar, Paladine’s chosen champion whose mighty blow struck down Arcanite and sent him to the Abyssal realm. Every piece of the statue was hand crafted in a labor of love from stone and marble, from the creases in the leather of his boots to the strands of hair of his bushy handle-bar mustache, Kathos stood in seventy-five foot splendor in the grand assembly hall, before him the seat of the High Templar, the position bound to his bloodline. In luminous gold hanging from a chain around his neck, a small metal disk bearing the likeness of a tree reflected the sunlight that shone down through a window casting its brilliance upon those assembled.
Soldiers moved through the halls of the palace on their own business, each serving a different lord or partition of the hierarchy of the Faith. Within the city, all was decided by the High Templar, the human vessel to Paladine and beneath him was the Triumvirate, three men who served Paladine as the High Templar’s eyes and ears, a High Knight and two Lesser Knights: judges to the heretics, priests to the dying, and Lords of Palanthos. They were responsible for selecting the Praetor and the Praetorian Council, the ruling body of Sanctuary and much of the city. These three bodies worked diligently to discover and uproot any attempt by Arcanite followers to take root whether in the city or anywhere in Dunvunion.
To aid in this, the High Templar selected Templar Overlords, rulers of the fiefdoms scattered across Dunvunion. In their lands, their word was law, and they answered only to the High Templar and to Paladine. For them, the threat of Arcanite was as real as each passing day, the outlying lands highly susceptible to attacks. In their world, security was something they had to create for themselves.
As a result, the Templar Overlords were often seen as tyrants, ruling with the rod and fist, strict rules for all those under their watchful gaze and stringently oppressive toward any not of the Faith. In the twenty-five years since the death of the Old Templar, the hope and light they believed the High Templar Mathos capable of bringing was on the brink of extinction, and the Holy Empire had entered dark times, an age of paranoia and suspicion that none could break from.
In an age ruled by fear and paranoia, those bound to live within Sanctuary’s walls were perhaps the most affected by the changing winds. Each day brought a new threat, new rumors of possible activity from Arcanite, nothing ever concrete or containing the least bit of truth to the words, but it was enough to continually deepen the rift between the nobility and the peasantry within her walls. While the Praetor would convey unity and cohesiveness to the outside world, within the darkened corridors and classrooms there was a much different world more akin to the movements throughout Palanthos’ populous, one that pitted nobility and privilege against those without. Through Sanctuary was the only path a peasant with two coppers to their name could become more than their station and ascend to the noble caste. Their voice suddenly mattered, their thoughts and opinions holding as much weight as those with a birthright to power, and with them came the words of change and equality, threatening the very way of life for the nobility outside of Sanctuary’s walls.
Greatest of these threats to the nobility were the orphans, bastards to life and a relatively new addition to Sanctuary in the course of its great history. These children and young adults had spent their entire lives within the protective shell of Sanctuary, saved by Mathos’ decree following his great ride. These children formed their own class within Sanctuary, not noble or peasantry in origins, they had been deemed the spawn of Arcanites by their peers, conveyed as classless and without rights, no better than slaves. Still, some of those from noble beginnings with affluence and sway gave some of the orphans their approval, offering coin and praise for protection and service, declaring their classless counterparts that they would ride on their coattails to greatness if they served them. It was a difficult opportunity for many to pass up, but with their purchased loyalties came a new tension within Sanctuary, and it came from the highest and lowest divides, pitting those of greatest station against those who would not be bought. While the affluent would send their lackeys against their peers, often leaving many of the orphans and peasants confined to the hospital for weeks at a time to heal from injuries, those few who struck back did so not through strength of arms but through exception, striving to be better than those of noble birth and the competition was fierce.
Regardless of the struggles within Sanctuary, there were always clear forerunners for such lofty aspirations of becoming a Paladin-knight among both the nobility and the orphans. These young men and women were frequented by Templar Overlords and even the Templar-Hunters, an elite sect of warriors who answered to the Triumvirate and the High Templar. Being selected to join the ranks of the Templar-Hunters required years of additional training that took place within the palace of the High Templar, the stature of those men and women was of legend and the respect they commanded was of the highest quality. Once it was learned that the Templar-Hunters had chosen another to add to their ranks, their path in life was set in stone.
#
“Sorry I’m late!” A man in his mid- twenties said between breaths as he barged through a door in the old monastery into a small, humbly decorated chamber. He moved past a barrel filled with maps, making a quick glance to the piles of books around the walls and the bookcase overflowing with knowledge. An astrolabe sat near the large window, a slight breeze drifting through the open portal into the stuffy chamber, gently ruffling loose papers held down by a large tome. A skull sat on the desk atop another sheaf of papers, its permanent grin greeting the man who paused before the desk and bowed his head slightly.
From behind a rickety wooden desk, a man with a shaved head and a patchy, graying beard looked up, returning the quill to the inkpot and wiping his stained fingers on a dirty rag. The monk motioned his visitor to a padded seat before his desk, shaking his head dismissively to the other’s profuse apologies. “Why should you apologize? When an Overlord calls for you, you must respond.”
“Your bitterness is duly noted, my friend.” The man replied, setting his satchel next to the chair. “Come now brother Aliquem, you know I look forward to our meetings: how else am I to learn of the world outside these walls? Your words keep me some manner of optimism for life outside of this place. Truthfully, I’ve little hope left for those within Sanctuary’s walls while those fed by a silver spoon are enamored by those who speak with silver tongues. Today I could hardly break through the mass to get here, between the prodding by Overlords Ralis to the somewhat dodgy meeting with the Templar-Hunters, your office provides a small bastion of sanity in this madhouse.”
“Shh!” The monk responded quickly, wadding the cloth and hurling it at the young man. “Eriadon, if any were to find out what I have been telling you…my words of the outside world are strictly against the policy of your training! This place has rules for a reason, and some old codger spewing tolerance and an open-ear policy toward the heathens would not only be frowned upon…but could end both our necks in a noose! You are my greatest achievement in this place and should you get out, I believe you can do things that have not been seen in Palanthos since Eamaneh!” The aging man paused, studying Eriadon’s worried expression. “I know you’re upset lad, and was I in your position I might be too. Believe me when I say that my insistence on our daily meetings were not because I foresaw only that which this place wanted you to become.”
Eriadon sighed, rubbing his brow. “I know, Aliquem…I know that I can always look back on this place and think fondly of you and your guiding words. It’s just.” He leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. “How can such an archaic law hold so much sway over the source of our lives here at Sanctuary? How can they really believe that isolating us and taking away our ability to connect and empathize with the masses will make us effective warriors? After all, Paladine teaches us to understanding all aspects of life, even those with differing points than our own. Why must we harden our hearts when the same words we would use to condemn someone to the gallows can also bring them to light?” Eriadon replied, a sly smile crossing his lips as blue eyes gazed at the old monk.
Aliquem chuckled softly, stroking the patchy fuzz on his chin. “I think your greatest challenge beyond reaching the potential I see in you will be keeping yourself away from the gallows. You may not like the archaic laws, dear boy, but to speak against them could be construed as blasphemy in certain circles…understanding, concern, empathy…bah! Not what you need to be accused of if you ever desire to be a Templar under this High Templar. People here do not like change or talk of it, so I hope you’ve remembered that when speaking to a Templar of any sort. Such words will see you standing next to the executioner in due course.”
“Pompous windbags could use some humility. All of the Templar could.” Eriadon replied irritably. “Have you ever met Lord Ralis, the Overlord who demanded much of my time today? If he were more arrogant, I would think he was the High Templar!”
Aliquem lofted a brow. “Lord Ralis? Well I guess he does come off a bit strong…he does enjoy his stature, almost as much as he enjoys being praised for it. I’ve met him on occasion, most recently in respect to his last Templar. Now Ageon, there was a decent fellow, for a noble.”
“Ageon was decent, though I doubt he remained such after being in the company of Ralis for long. Lord Ralis thinks far too little of others and exponentially more of himself. You know he said that if I were to go with him to Taringor that I would be required to carry out death sentences for anyone that would slander his name? How does Paladine stand for that?” He folded his arms across his chest. “I hate the days when the Templar come: everyone snaps to attention and caters to the ego of the Templars and the Overlords in effort to be taken from this place. As if the Overlords aren’t bad enough, many of these so-called Templar-Hunters are far worse…oppressive cheats, don’t think I haven’t heard what is said about them.”
“Slander as well! Sweet Paladine, you are in a rebellious mood today aren’t you?” Aliquem said with a laugh, his joviality calming. “Dear me, I hope this is the last I’ll ever see of you in this state. Are you through whining now? I say, you’ve been crying over this since you were twelve years old and the nobles tried to pick on you…remember that? Who was that boy you sent to the medical wing for a month? Falastar, wasn’t it? My, weren’t you hotheaded…at least we tempered that, too bad we couldn’t cease your complaining.” He laughed, lighting a pipe and sending a few stray smoke rings toward the ceiling. “But I think I am satisfied with what I have managed to impart on you, in some manner anyway.”
“It’s not whining and you know that you old coot. I’m frustrated, nothing ever changes.” Eriadon tossed the rag back at his mentor, the soiled cloth hanging from the long stem of the pipe. “Why I even put up with this is beyond me! I have half a mind to walk through your door, downstairs through the great hall and out into the streets and never return!”
Aliquem shook his head, taking the rag and placing it over the skull on his desk. “But you won’t…Eriadon. You’ve been threatening to leave since you were only six, with much of that same expression as you have now. I’ll say now as I said back then. As much as you desire to right the wrongs of this world, you still realize this place and her people have their uses…why even me I bet.” Aliquem spoke kindly, his voice soft and supportive. “That’s why you’re frustrated lad…you’ve grown far beyond my own expectations, you’re a man in your own right, not some toe-head I can chide. I promise you, you will leave these halls soon and what happens after that is what you make of it.”
The man’s eyes found the cracked surface of the desk, his heart wrenching at the truth he felt within, straining more so when his voice dared to speak the secrets within. “And what about you? You’ve been my mentor for twenty-three years, with me since I could walk and even before I could properly put words together. You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father…don’t pretend I haven’t heard the rumors. The Praetorian council wishes you out onto the streets.”
Aliquem lowered his pipe, his laugh slow and warm. The boy’s concern was touching and while he had no children of his own, he could admit that several of the monks, himself included, had grown attached to many of the individual orphans, guiding their teaching and taking such interest in their lives as flesh and blood may have. To hear it from Eriadon’s lips, it was sentimental and unwarranted; uncomfortable even that he had to face that which he had felt all along. The feeling was mutual by the man’s anxious tone and reddish cheeks, but it was touching. “Eriadon,” He offered softly, “Don’t you worry about me once you leave this place…whether here or elsewhere, we will meet once more. You are a far wiser man than I ever could be, and I am thankful at least for that. You have given these old bones a new life as I have watched you grow from the mop-headed boy skinning his knees and elbows to besting every blade in these hallowed halls, and no man could be prouder of your accomplishments than I.”
Eriadon said nothing, his gaze cast to the stone floor with the monk sending another round of rings into the air. “You’ve nothing to worry about, Eriadon, partially because of my mentoring,” he boasted with a smile, but Eriadon’s face remained as somber as before, “but mostly because you are different than the rest and I saw this the moment I first laid eyes on you. There are noble children who wish they had half the raw skill and talent that you do, so much that they fear you. Part of me thinks that you would relish your own following, to be as revered as many of those who will leave this place in preordained greatness, but you…you boy have bled, sweat, and pushed forward to best them all.” Aliquem encouraged. “You’ve remained true to yourself, resisted the coin of the nobles to throw your lot with them, stood up to your fellow orphans and the nobles on behalf of those weaker than yourself, and you’ve gained the respect of every monk in these hallowed halls.
“Perhaps my training has clouded your mind against the necessary evils of rank and station, but you must at least tolerate the politics of this place in order to be free of them. You’ve been ordained to greatness of a different sort long before this day and you’ll do great things once free of Sanctuary’s walls. You are not like the other orphans. The heretics slew your family, and as such,” Aliquem looked around as if the very walls themselves could have ears. “And as such,” he whispered, “The High Templar believes you and those like you capable of driving Arcanite’s followers from this world once and for all! Ardor and glory in vengeful retribution for a wrongful death, Arcanite taking from you a life you will never know. You have everything to gain in this world, Eriadon…do not let rash thinking derail everything you would see done. I know you can do these things, and I wish to see you bring them about.”
“And what would I be, brother Aliquem, if you had not taken me aside these many years? Would I be an uncaring zealot like many of the others? Why would I look forward to standing as a Paladin-knight for any of these Templar Overlords who believe that any not of our faith should be subservient to us? How is exacting revenge on the heretics capable of doing anything but sowing more hate, more fear, and more misunderstanding? You say I am different? One man cannot change the world.”
Aliquem lifted himself up from his seat, peppered beard hanging over his neck as he shuffled toward Eriadon, his deep grey robes splayed around his feet. He placed his hands on the young Paladin’s shoulders. “That is why I have such faith in you. Change must start somewhere, so why not in a young upstart like yourself? One man may not be able to change the world, but one man can spark in others that same desire.” He tapped Eriadon’s cheek softly. “Just keep yourself from spewing blasphemy or heresy, and you’ll do just fine. Within these hallowed halls of destiny I have sway with the Praetorian council, but outside these walls the council sits below the Triumvirate, and not even my words to the Praetor could spare you from their wrath. A slip of the tongue will have your neck feeling the slip of a noose.”
He coughed, clearing his throat while crossing back to his desk and drew forth three sealed scrolls, sliding them across the table. “Now then, Ralis knew even before your meeting today that he wanted you serving beneath him. It is a shame…I’d rather have sent you north with Inviolate, but I won’t push. I did speak to Ralis of Triannon and Moradrim as well, and he has agreed to take your two friends along, acknowledging their prowess. He was hesitant at first knowing of Moradrim’s temper, but I convinced him of the wisdom in bringing them with you. They may not like having no say in the matter but if you are going to change the world, it’s best to start off with some people as adamant to bring change as you are…just make sure Moradrim holds his tongue.”
Eriadon frowned, knowing the minds of his companions. “I’m sure they’ll thank you for your high recommendation.” A hint of sarcasm dripped like velvet from his tongue.
Aliquem stared him down, “I would hope you, at least, would thank me, but I won’t push them for such gratuities, especially Moradrim.” Aliquem shook his head. “That boy…I think that if his mouth doesn’t end him up at the gallows before the month is out I’ll shave my beard.”
“I’ll hold you to that, brother Aliquem.” Eriadon said with a smile.
Aliquem coughed violently, his body shaking beneath the tremors and he reached for a mug on his desk, hacking a few more times before they subsided. “Well, you won’t be here to force me to uphold any wager. Ralis is taking quite the selective group from these halls: a great honor it is to be considered…one of those who go with him will be replacing Ageon as his Templar, a veritable leap forward over years of service as a Paladin-knight if selected-”
“Ageon got smart and ran off did he?” Eriadon said with a chuckle, Aliquem responded by slamming his fist into the desktop.
“He was killed by the Arcanite boy!” Aliquem fumed. “And if you aren’t careful you will be too! Great evil still exists in this world with ancient powers greater than anything you could ever imagine! Now then, aside from you three, there are seven others who will accompany Ralis back to his keep, most with aspirations for this position whether you want it or not. You’ll be in the real world now, Eriadon, and all of these Paladin-knights are looking to secure their own foothold in society. They are as likely to stick a knife in your back as the Arcanite are. Anything they can do to sully your name they will, and with laws as absolute as ours are, you’ll end up at the gallows if you do not tread carefully. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“Good.” Aliquem climbed back to his feet and moved to the overflowing bookcase, dust flying up as he shuffled books around muttering absently to himself, searching the stacks until at last he found the book he was looking for with a triumphant yelp. He blew off a layer of dust, spittle flying from his chapped lips before he wiped the remainder off with his hand. Aliquem handed it to Eriadon, and encouraged him to open it. “There are many allies to Paladine in the world, and many others who only give him lip service.” Eriadon pulled from a hollow cavity in the book a small golden medallion. “I picked this up many long years ago when I was still a young man. It has given me luck over the years…life altering luck, and I think you will need it far more than I in the coming days.”
Eriadon studied the medallion in his hands. His thumb caressed the gleaming surface staring upward at him with a tree, a sword, and a shield on its back, an odd feeling rushing through his body. He turned it over slowly; the front bore an ornate shield divided into three quarters in which once again, a tree, a shield, and a sword were present, each in its own quadrant. Without warning, the medallion flared a brilliant white and then fizzled out, Eriadon looking to Aliquem with concern, but the old monk said nothing and maintained a rather amused grin on his lips.
Without warning, Aliquem shot from his desk and moved against Eriadon, grabbing the collar of his robes and pulling him to his feet and mere inches from his own face, a feat of strength Eriadon had not expected of the aging man as the medallion nearly slipped from his hand. “Watch for those who would seek to destroy Paladine. The Arcanite has many cunning spies, and he is always preparing for his great war! Guard yourself and remember the true teachings of Paladine!”

Prologue

An icy wind blew down from the north in the early spring, the chill of winter from the mountains fresh on the heels of many riders, guiding them southward toward the undefended villages spotting the landscape of Dunvunion. Under the cover of night, the thundering hooves of a thousand horses propelled their riders forward into unanswered battle, each stallion sending wisps of steam from flaring nostrils while spittle dripped from steel bits. Their armor gleamed in the moonlight, delicately crafted plates etched with the clenched fist and sword clinging to each flank of the mighty chargers that bore their masters past ill-defended palisades, the knights combing through village after village leaving only a trail of corpses and orphaned children, the screams of the condemned filling the night only to be silenced by the rolling thunder of the riders. Buildings were sacked and burned, thatch roofs snapped and popped with flames that stretched toward the heavens above while the smoke choked the air and lingered long after the riders had gone.

A single parish would not be enough for the crusaders from the Holy city of Palanthos, for this night was chosen by divine intervention and the fury in their hearts was great. Vengeance plagued the minds of the riders. Compelled forward by the wrath of their God, they promised both to Him and to the people of Palanthos that they would make safe their lands and spare the devout followers of Paladine from the extermination that Arcanite, the dark God, demanded from his Abyssal realm. He had struck what they believed to be untouchable, attacked the very heart of the Faith and the core of all they had believed in. The High Templar once believed that they could peacefully coexist, the peoples of Arcanite and Paladine, and he stretched out his hand to the enemy and welcomed them with open arms into Palanthos. Mercy was the highest tenant of Paladine’s teachings: tonight, mercy did not exist.

Dawn was fast approaching from the east hours into the slaughter, her sweet aroma filling the bodies of Paladine’s champions and their hearts were lightened at the prospect of the glory of their God, an end to the carnage and death wrought that night. Yet hope turned to gloom when the dawn proved false; it was not the sun cresting over the Delling Range but the blaze of the villages on the shores of the Argyle and the smell was only the fetid tang of the dead.

Blessed by the hand of Paladine, the knights and their chargers rallied through the night, weariness was suffered by no man. The riders pressed onward into the early watches of the morning unwavering and relentless in their assault; their steel blades the wrath of Paladine and their cloaks a white sea of valor billowing in the winds. They pushed toward the bastion to the insurgents far to the southwest of Palanthos, two days ride taken in a single night. Kuzhul, the fortress of the Dwarves of Firebeard, sanctuary unto the dark servants of Arcanite, stood in the shadow of the mountains. Before her ancient walls, the holy army of Paladine met its greatest enemy in over a century.

They clashed with the Dwarven armies of King Blanderbak the Ninth, known to them as Blanderbak the Butcher, murderer of Gren. The stocky Dwarf stood at the head of his legions in armor the color of the setting sun, a gleaming crown upon his helm that danced and glistened with ill-gotten jewels. The hooked tips of the Dwarven pikes hardly slowed the charge of the Holy army of Palanthos. Dwarf and man fought until Blanderbak stood alone atop a pile of slain warriors of Paladine.

Blanderbak was met by a single man, his stature magnificent and his armor a faultless white and the cold steel of his blade clashed against the axe of the Butcher. The clash of their weapons gave pause to the mêlée and Dwarf and man within the valley of Ardell did suspend their fury as eyes marveled at the fray. Upon the bodies of the dead stacked before the walls of Kuzhul, the champions of light and dark battled back and forth and the cries of Blanderbak were fierce, the cheers of his men echoed from the fortress bulwark shaking the very foundations of the mountains.

The champion of Paladine did not falter, for the hand of his God was with him and when sword and axe met once more, the skill of the Dwarf was found wanting. Upon the tip of a spear did Paladine’s warrior place the head of Blanderbak, thrusting it into the pile of bodies before the gate that Arcanite would tremble before the light, and with a cry of victory did he lead his men forward into the fortress of the dark God. Behind their champion, the Holy army burst through the massive iron gates of the enemy fiefdom, blades creating a path for the Inquisitor, the Lord of Palanthos: the new High Templar of Paladine, slayer of Blanderbak the Ninth, the Butcher of Gren.

Smoke throttled the air as battle raged in the streets of Kuzhul, the fortress of the Dwarves occupied by those peoples who served the enemy of Paladine. Dwarf, Elf, Man, and Gnome, all would suffer for the terrible deed done by the servants of the dark God that night. The reign of Arcanite over the lands of Dunvunion beyond the walls of Palanthos would end before the sun lifted over the Delling. Retribution had begun under cover of night, and the heretics of the Dark God would rue their life and forever fear their eternal suffering. None would be spared. Paladine had judged them already, and the High Templar, whose word was final, was a devout and loyal follower to his God.

Children screamed and wailed while frightened parents ducked into buildings not yet ablaze. The forces of the Holy Empire slew the pagan infidels without prejudice whether they were man, woman, or child. All deserved nothing less than death for their transgressions, their filth not even suited for burial within the earth: the flames of Paladine would destroy their corruption, once and for all. Arcanite had forgotten his place, doubted the true strength of the High Templar and the Faith and thought to strike down his enemy but in the wake of his success, Arcanite unleashed an enemy he could not defeat, the son of the fallen lord.

Paladine’s champion moved through the open gates into the burning city as a conquering emperor, a majestic white horse bearing the new leader of the Faith through the carnage, his face young but determined. A deep laceration was visible across his neck, dried blood still fresh upon his skin from a failed assassination. Blood trickled from the bottom of his scabbard, the blood of a king whose body lay on the plains before Kuzhul. Never again would a king of Arcanite stand against the brilliance of Paladine or the High Templar.

Though many of his men struggled to resist glaring at the wound, the High Templar displayed it with pride and courage, wishing the blood of his mortality to fuel their purpose and steel their resolve. It was a sign that Paladine’s hand still watched over them all and had the wound been a hair deeper, Arcanite would have slain the last of the greatest line of Paladine’s followers, and where Arcanite had succeeded in slaying the old leader of the faith, he had only succeeded in raising the ire of its successor.

Icy blue eyes gazed calmly around the flaming buildings, Paladine’s own judgment seeming to pour from their depths. His dark brown hair hung in damp bunches, disheveled from hours of riding and combat, blood and dirt clinging to the matted tips that were visible beneath the rim of his helm. A gloved hand lifted the opaque visor protecting his face, and his appearance was so humble that were it not for the flowing white cloak bearing the seal of Paladine with a crown above the golden blade, few would know the man had just become the leader of the Faith. And yet behind his composed expression, few save those closest to him truly understood the pain wrenching at his heart beneath his placid exterior. He looked down to the body of a slain human, memories flooding over him of the beginning of the path he was now on. The path that had started with death would end with death, and in the vacant eyes gazing into eternity he could see the dead body of his sire.

Hours earlier, his father, the High Templar Anglor, had been mercilessly assassinated by pagan interlopers.

They had come to him proclaiming an end to the differences between their people, a pair of would-be envoys from Kuzhul whose deception led them all to believe peace was a possibility. Their tale was convincing, their lies practiced and true, but it was Anglor who paid the ultimate price for their treachery, murdered in his sleep without ever standing a chance. Had they left then events may have proceeded differently, but Arcanite thrived on the death and pain of Paladine’s followers, and his agents made the fatal mistake of trying to end the line of the progenitor.

Paladine himself had stirred the heir to the Faith mere moments before the knife’s deadly edge could fulfill its destiny and the son of the High Templar slew the assassins with his own hand. Upon the discovery of his father’s body did Mathos, son of the revered ‘Old Templar’ who for more than one hundred years had been the head of their Faith, assume the trappings of the Lord of Palanthos even before his father’s body had grown cold, declaring himself the High Templar.

Mathos quickly gathered his father’s allies to him and took the scepter of Paladine for himself, hatred filling his heart as he declared the vengeance of Paladine was with him. He rode through the city of Palanthos proclaiming the dire news and rallying the armies of the Holy Empire to him. He gathered the Overlords of his father, mustering the fierce Templar Hunters, emptying Sanctuary of its petitioning Paladin-knights, personally seeing that each was armed and made ready for war. At the head of the largest force assembled in over a hundred years, Mathos, the High Templar of Paladine, made his war.

Giving pause to his steed, Mathos observed the burning city around him, the brilliant gold trim of his armor reflecting the inferno that consumed the nearby buildings. The heat was intense, sweat gathered on his body beneath his armor and glistened on his face, and from the corner of his eye something tugged on his heart, breaking through the hate and pain of losing his father. A child lay mutilated, his belly sliced open and his limbs torn from his body bringing forth an unwanted guilt that seeped into the conscious of the High Templar, his hardened heart weeping at the sight. “Take any children back to Palanthos that they may be saved from this blasphemous life. I want no further blood of the innocent, albeit ignorant, slain this night.” Mathos stated to his nearby procession. “Is that understood? I want the children shown mercy!”

No sooner had the words left his mouth, did a small group of heathens in mixed-company appear before them, a grizzled Dwarf crying out in alarm as his fellows drew their weapons. The High Templar’s helm dropped closed with a gentle clank, and he pulled free his bloodied broad sword and gave chase, cutting down those who drew weapons against him. His charger bore down upon them, many scattering beneath the powerful animal as they fled before the High Templar and his wrath; Mathos spurred his horse forward after what he deemed to be a woman, her lithe form weaving through the narrow streets in effort to evade his relentless pursuit.

With his personal guard falling farther behind, the High Templar finally cornered the woman who defiantly turned to face him, a baby clutched to her bosom. Behind her the thatched roofing of the building took to flame, and she cowered beneath the burning edifice protecting the child in her arms. She stepped sideways, Mathos strafing his steed to block her path and the woman knew she had nowhere to go. Her hood hung loosely over her head, bold eyes staring directly into those of the High Templar, her features unyielding and proud in exotic beauty as she challenged the leader of the Faith in silence before her eyes fell worriedly to the child in her arms. “Hand over the child.” Mathos demanded sternly. “And it will not be harmed.”

She replied in a crisp dialect he had never heard before, her fierce gaze boring once more into his own as though she could see straight through his mask. It unsettled him, and Mathos’ horse shifted anxiously beneath his body. “You are being given your final warning woman!” He stated harshly, his charger staggering back and forth. In the distance, shouts cried out in victory and a ringing bell echoed the conquest of the fortress.

The woman gave no response, looking instead to the child as she pulled a dagger from her robes and poised it above the baby, debating her own actions. With quick hands, Mathos drew a loaded crossbow from his saddlebag and nestled the bolt deep within her throat, the dagger falling from her hand. Almost instantly, the woman sank to the earth with the child cradled protectively in her arms, a soft gurgling noise emanating from her lips while her life slowly left her body. The child began to scream, and the slender hands of the woman touched his cheeks gently, blood flowing from the wound to her neck.

A man caught up with Mathos, the Lord of Palanthos watching the dying woman without emotion. The High Templar handed his crossbow to the herald before dismounting his large steed and moved warily to the woman’s side, kneeling and pulling her arm from the child while more blood seeped from the corners of her mouth. The baby in her arms wailed, blood dripping from the end of the arrow shaft onto the babe’s face. Mathos lifted his hand before the woman, offering a serene prayer for the mistress of Arcanite’s soul. “Return to the grace of Paladine, and may you find forgiveness in his eyes-“

The High Templar’s final prayer for her being stopped in his throat as the dark hood slid from her head. Golden hair fell about her face revealing distinctively pointed ears, and for Mathos the bile in his throat burned at the sight of the creature before him. “An Elf!” He hissed as if burned by the very sight of her.

Mathos reached down with gloved hands and ripped the infant violently from her arms, the naked baby wailing in his grip, the High Templar holding it aloft by an ankle, inspecting it thoroughly. There was no trace of the Elf’s heritage in his features, the boy was clearly human. The High Templar’s brow furrowed deeply, spitting on the woman in disgust. “You would steal a baby from its mother.” He admonished quickly, but the woman’s head shifted side to side to discount the accusation, unable to muster words to defend herself.

The High Templar’s mouth deepened into a scowl, the Elf woman stretching a hand longingly toward the child still held above her. Mathos stretched out his arm, not toward the woman but to his horse, the muscles of his appendage fighting the urge to simply throw the child beneath his horse’s hoof in case it were indeed an Elf and suffered from some disfigurement, his mind even toying with the thought of simply dropping the child upon the stone street to be done with it. Yet something stayed his hand and Mathos retracted the child and cradled it in his arms, a gloved finger wiggling before the boy that looked up at him with brilliant blue eyes, his screams coming to an end and yielding a soft giggle.

Mathos offered a small smile to the boy as he turned to walk away, pausing when a hand gripped his calf tightly and he turned back to the Elf with sudden speed, his foot kicking out at her exposed face with armored greaves, the blow sending her careening to the ground and into the afterlife as blood sprayed from her mouth, painting the walls a vibrant red.

Snorting and nodding his head in righteous indignation, Mathos returned to his horse. His herald watched him curiously while a small detachment of soldiers rounded the corner. The herald’s eyes fell questioningly to the dead woman. He caught sight of her pointed ears and such actions were now understood, and the High Templar gave him a wary look. Mathos gripped the pommel of his saddle, placed his bloodied boot into the large stirrups of his horse, and swung his body into position before stretching his hand with the child in it toward his herald. “Praetor, see this and other liberated children are sent to Sanctuary.” He said with a hard gaze into the man’s green eyes. “Let those who cannot yet speak blasphemies become champions of our faith…the monks of Sanctuary and you, James, will train them well.”

“And what of those we have captured who are too old to begin that path? Never have we accepted children beyond age six.” James questioned, taking the child from the High Templar and wrapping a portion of his cloak around the naked infant.

The High Templar’s eyes narrowed, pulling his helm from his head. He poured water from a treated skin over his face and then suckled until his thirst was quenched. “Kill those who do not subject to the will of Paladine.” He said without a second thought, stowing the skin and turning his horse from the bloodied body, the bells of the city tolling out the final victory for the armies of Paladine.

#

As the night ended and the sun crested over the Delling Range in the east, a winding trail of victorious warriors left the fortress of Kuzhul on the southern point of the Cloud Peaks burning. Under the pale light of the dawn, the weary column of holy warriors began the journey back to the walled city of Palanthos near the center of the plains of Seldanine. In one night, the armies of the Faith had dealt Arcanite a blow that had not been matched since the end of the Second Darkness, a defeat that would not easily be forgotten. With the lands of Dunvunion made safe and a new foothold in the south for the righteous, Mathos turned his eyes back to the city of Palanthos, his heart dark in mourning for his father and burning with the vengeance and conviction of his god Paladine.