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!”