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.