Callum affixed the bracers around his wrists. Upon them was the Dragon-Eating-Its-Tail of his lineage. It had to be perfect, he thought to himself, his scrutinizing blue eyes peering at it. His long ears perked up, however, at the opening of a distant door. Walking into the barracks, the jungle of mail and plate could be heard, and so Callum stood up. Readjusting his armored robes and sacramental scrolls adorning it, he swallowed hard, waiting in place for the approaching individual to round the corner.

When they did, a man fully armored in plate and mail, clicked his heels together and looked at him through their visor. One hand on the hilt of his blade, the man then ut a hand to his heart, pounding on it with a curled fist.

“Acolyte Ashtongue?”

“Aye?”

“Follow me.” With that, the knight spun on his heel and began to walk away. So, the half-elf followed, hurriedly reaching the man’s tail end and then falling into step. Passing through a long corridor, dimly lit by candles, adorned with both architecture of wooden arcs and stone walls and ceilings, the various paintings and statues of prior heroes of the Order of the Iron Hand watched him with vacant, judging eyes.

From the half-orc warrior Iftan, who slew a Dragon to protect both his hometown and a tribe of migrating Orcs, both of whom despised him for his lineage.

To even Sir Thorstahl of Bloodstone, who single-handedly fought off two hundred men and slew them to protect a woman wrongfully accused of witchcraft.

As Callum and the knight approached the large oakwood double-doors at the end, the knight suddenly turned, stopping the paladin acolyte in his tracks.

“Young Acolyte,” the knight began in a low, dangerous voice. “You are about to receive the mark of Helm Ironhand. The Hammer of God. Saint of all Knights, and Patron of Honor. Your oath shall be one that shall be with you for the rest of your life.”

Callum’s wide eyes stared into the obscured ones of the knight in silence. Seeing no response, the knight continued. “Are you ready to enter and kneel before the Keeper?”

“I am.” Almost too quickly did the young half-elf reply. The knight quirked a brow, but nonetheless nodded, seemingly pleased by the answer. Turning on his heel again, he then used both of his gauntleted hands to push the door open. Shining od-rays instantly slashed across Callum’s vision and he could do nothing but waddle slowly forward, blinded for a moment.

Resting his reflexively raised hands down by his sides again, Callum peered about with now blinking, wide eyes. The chapel of Saint Helm was filled- every seat, corner and stand filled by a member of the Order. From young Neophytes, to Acolytes his age, to Knights and even Chroniclers, dignitaries from the Church, Nobility and Guildmasters of the city of Dragonfell. And, of course, under a mighty statue of a fully armored figure stood an equally armored, yet helmet-less old man, the Keeper of Saint Helm’s Order of Honor, Master Valendorf, one of the tallest dwarves Callum had seen. The statue above him was holding a sword’s pommel in one hand, the sword pushing into the skull of a Vampyr, and the other gauntlet pointing forward at -him-. As if Helm Ironhand himself was judging Callum, and though eyesless and faceless, the Knight of Knight’s visor was inched downward- as if the statue’s blank gaze was downcast.

“Acolyte,” the voice of the dwarven Keeper reverberated throughout the Hall. “Come forth and remove your gauntlets.”

Swallowing hard, each step that Callum took toward Master Valendorf was heavier than the last. His boots clicked and echoed against the floor of the chapel, even though a carpet of red velvet was under him. The gleaming sun that shone through the fresco of the chapel’s windows gleaned against the golden railings, artifacts and idols across the hall's many columns and walls, almost blinding Callum, who resisted to reflexively push away the sweat from his brow.

Finally, as Callum reached some five feet before the Keeper, who stood at the top of seven steps leading to the main altar of the Reclaimer. The altar was adorned with a beautiful painting, detailing Sir Helm’s fealty to the Reclaimer after seeing one of his miracles, over three thousand years ago, becoming the first knight. Dressed in drag clothes and holding up a rusted sword, the Reclaimer, who looked down upon his trusted companion, was obscured- his back turned meaningfully and fully cloaked in the faithful colors of black and red of the church, and extending a gloved hand toward his companion to kiss a ring upon it.

For, indeed, painting the Reclaimer in any sort of way that implies his true age, race, or even gender, was heresy. Nonetheless, Callum pulled his eyes away from the art and toward the Keeper, who’s long bushy, white beard was rising up and down, braided and studded with Dwarven ornaments. In his hands the dwarf held what seemed to be a long, wrapped up object, wrapped in the same red velvet that adorned the carpet below Callum.

“Kneel.”

As he knelt, every Knight and Neophyte who had been sitting stood up from their seats, pulling their hands together. And so, softly, a young choir of girls began to sing a Psalm in Old Indal, the language of the Divine Age and of God, the Reclaimer. Whilst their voices echoed, Valendorf then slowly unwrapped the wrapped up velvet and revealed the prize within- a blade of the Order. A knight’s sign of office, sign of chivalry and especially a sign of their oath.

As the Psalm was done, Valendorf spoke loudly across the Hall.

“Today we are gathered here to witness and induct a new member of our Order,” he said, bending his head down slightly as a bow of respect to the new Knight-to-be that knelt before him. “For this, he shall swear an Oath to God and Saint Helm, Knight of Knights, Breaker of the Chains of Jergal. This Oath, as all of you may know, is of great importance to our order. It signifies our chivalry, our honor and our status within this turbulent world. To guide and protect the people, from the serf to the great king. For this, we have invited the Arch-Priest of Dragonfell, Master Regford, to conduct this oath as an agent of both the church of Saint Ilmeter and as a Man of God. Arch-Priest…”

The burly dwarf stepped aside, and a long, lanky, ancient elf strolled up to Callum. Callum peered up at the Arch-Priest, inspecting him. Though his face was droopy and old, and his ethereal blue, high-elven eyes were not as bright and blue as they should be, the gray-hair elf nonetheless bent down and extended his hands.

“Take forth my palms, young Knight, and repeat after me.”

“I shall, Arch-Priest. Callum slowly replied, taking the palms of the Arch-Priest with his clammy ones, sweaty skin against old, wrinkled skin. A disturbing thought to the young man but barely anything to worry about, considering the weight of the events to soon transpire.

“I swear, by the Grace of the Almighty God, the Reclaimer, Saint of Justice…”

“I swear, by the Grace of the Almighty God, the Reclaimer, Saint of Justice…” Their voices carried over the hushed chapel, bouncing off of every wall and scrutinizing the gaze of idols and holy men.

“To bear His word in grace and honor,”

“To bear His word in grace and honor,”

“And to be his Knight, as was his first Knight, Sir Helm,”

“And to be his Knight, as was his first Knight, Sir Helm,”

“And as a Knight to protect those that cannot protect themselves.”

“And as a Knight to protect those that cannot protect themselves.”

Breathing in raspily, the Arch-Priest coughed into his closed mouth, before continuing.

“I s-swear… To serve my liege lord and God willingly and faithfully,”

“I swear to serve my liege lord and God willingly and faithfully,”

“And to faithfully serve the people of the land, and let no harm come to them.”

“And to faithfully serve the people of the land, and let no harm come to them.”

“I shall live by the code of honor,”

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“I shall live by the code of honor,”

“And follow it ‘till the day my Soul leaves me,”

“And follow it ‘till the day my Soul leaves me,”

“So help me God.”

“So help me God.” With that, the Arch-Priest released his palms, and Valendorf took his place. Taking the sword, he first put it on his right shoulder. Keeping it there, the Dwarf spoke louder than the feeble priest.

“By the power invested in me by the church,” he then lifted it and put it on Callum’s left shoulder. “And by the people of the land of Beur, I, Keeper Valendorf of the Sacred Order of Honor, hereby proclaim and anoint you,” Valendorf finally lays the sword atop the Half-elf’s head. “Sir Callum, Knight of the Realms.”

“Praise Be.” The entire Hall chorused. Swiftly, Valendorf took the sword away, and using one of Callum’s dropped gauntlets, slapped it across his face. Callum had been ready for it, though still was dazed by the act. He looked upon Valendorf in silence. “Let that be the final strike given to you unanswered for. Rise, Knight.” The dwarf handed him the sword, and slowly, Callum rose.

And turned around in the ashes of the burnt chapel. His lips were quirked down, his gaze stoney and cold as the old blade was held firmly in his hands. The castle forged steel was now almost useless during the last seventy years after his induction, however the old paladin still held onto it. Much like the memory of this place.

Dragonfell had fallen quickly. The Yellow Khan had done well enough in taking the ancient city, and it had been a week since its walls had been broken through with cannons, pikes and rifles. The paladin Callum had barely done anything of note, apart from leading one of the banners into combat. His partnership with the Yellow Khan had started during the Beast Wars, after many of his knightly friends from the Order had been butchered by the wretched Beastfolk. His anger spurred him on to do many dreadful things.

Oddly enough, some sort of feeling had gripped his heart after he had come to the city. The chapel had burned down during the assault, and the city was quiet, blanketed by Autumn clouds. A distant cloud let out an echoing burst of thunder as Callum, his face adorned with scars, crows feet, and long, unruly hair and beard, paced about the idols and altar of the old chapel. Amidst it all, the painting that had impressed him seven decades ago stood, and the old half-elf sighed, taking it from the wall. Half of it had burnt away- only leaving Sir Helm. The Knight of Knights.

It seemed that the Tarkhanites were right. The Mortal Age was an age of reason. Callum was among the last paladin knights accepted into the Order- science trumping theological debate and sermons of the modern age. The Gods were mortal sorcerers, well versed in the arts of magic to overthrow the Vampyr. Deified after their mortal deaths, and continued to be worshiped as Gods, despite their mortal coils being dust.

Nonetheless, as the cynical Callum looked upon the face of an adoring, young Helm, he hummed. He neatly rested it down upon the altar and put his hands together, and… prayed. For the first time in thirty years, Callum prayed. Driven by the energy of the dust around him, he prayed under the darkness of the gray clouds above him, his head bowed before the altar, shadowed moreover by the giant statues of Sir Helm, which still stood- proud and noble.

Callum did not voice his prayer. A mistake in teaching, he understood, but this was all… praxis for him. Faith no longer carried a large part of his skill in the Light. Rather, the Light had supposedly ‘abandoned’ him and his fellow knights who joined the army of the rising Tarkhanite Empire.

As he finished praying, Callum raised his voice above a whisper, saying. “Praise Be” and drawing a holy sign across his chest before planting a kiss to the armored feet of Helm Ironhand. Turning away, his long strides stopped in place, frozen, for his prayer was answered.

“Is that all?”

The voice was deep. It echoed throughout the burnt down walls, the collapsed arcs, the dusty, melted golden idols and even shook the dust across the statues, falling like a waterfall in a few places onto the ground. Callum stood still, gripping his weapon and looking about with his calculative eyes, his internal experience as a trained and successful killer of men kicking in.

“Who is there?”

“Ah. Will you unsheath bloodied steel in a place of worship?” The voice asked again, echoing as if it came from several voices, spoken in perfect unison. No, rather, as if a single man, or rather a single someone or something was speaking to him from all sides at once, their voice bouncing off of the walls of a Hall that did not have them anymore.

“Show yourself, curr. You speak to the Captain of the Thirteenth Red Banner.” Callum growled out, snarling his teeth and reeling his long ears back. Peering about, the old paladin tried to spot from the rubble someone, anyone, who was hidden away. Then, he noticed… The great statue of Sir Helm was pointing down. Rather than at the horizon, but… Downward. Its gaze, blank and stone, was also pointed more so down at him than ever before. It was as if it looked straight at him. And so, in that silence, the voice spoke again.

“You are truly a despicable mortal being, aren’t you?”

“... What is this devilry?” he softly whispered, slowly unsheathing an inch of his blade, and yet, it was for naught, as the voice rose in power, shaking dust and ash from their places.

“Devilry? Trickery? Witchcraft? Have you no Soul, Callum, or are you truly so lost?”

“Show yourself!” Callum said again, roaring at every single debris and rubble pile he could see, finally unsheathing his blade. And, as he held it aloft, ready to strike, he peered at it. The steel was slowly wobbling in place. As he stared longer and longer, the voice, still stern and strong as ever, echoed again.

“I will not have you unsheath -bloodied steel- before His eyes.”

And the wobbling continued, until suddenly, vibrating, the sword -shattered- into tiny bits of metal, as small and fragile as and, and with a terrified yell, Callum dropped the blade-less sword’s hilt and guard, landing with it on the ground and hurriedly crawling back onto a column, behind him.

His brow sweating, he looked up at the accusing gaze of Sir Helm. His mind was awry with thoughts of madness. Had his age caught up to him? Rather than ask more, he listened in dead silence as the voice spoke again, the source now visible, or at least, understood from Callum’s perspective. The great statue of Sir Helm.

“The slaughter of Camp Garoche. The killing of Lady Trefney. The conspiracy against your brother, Sir Dacius. The branding of Tieflings and peddling them to -slavers- in Bloodstone. I have seen it -all-, Knight. I have seen everything you and this Order stood for crumble to ash.”

“... it cannot be--” Callum tried weakly, his words coming out like a whimper, and yet Sir Helm replied, confirming his fears.

“Oh, oh, yes. It is I. And you are within my abode. And yet, despite your crimes, despite your turning away from your faith. Your oath. You came here to pray. But not for redemption. Because it is natural. You are disgusting. You are without regret, little Knight.”

Swiftly, Callum dove forth, crashing down upon his face, palms held together and pulled upright, in a praying position. “Saint Helm! God, be merciful! F-forgive me! I did not mean, I…!”

“Silence!” And silence was indeed pushed down upon the whimpering old knight, as the -deity- continued. “Long have I watched the decay. And long has it come before you. But now, I have seen what faithlessness has done to this land. This land I fought for for one thousand two hundred and fifty five years. I bled and sweated for this land, for your ancestor’s chains to be broken. And this is my thanks…?”

Sir Helm chuckled, as Callum continued to stare up in absolute fear and awe. A God was speaking to him. Him, a mortal. A sinner.

“All hope is not yet lost. And yet, I must act accordingly. Tell me, Sir callum…” The Stone statue seemed to move downward, closer to Callum, almost kneeling. It then mock-whispered to him. “Do you seek redemption?”

Callum stared mouth agape and did not know how to reply at first, before blinking rapidly, before trying to get back up on wobbly feet. He spoke, finding his voice hard to use and choked not with dust, but with debilitating fear.

“Y-y-yes… Yes. Yes, my lord.”

“Then listen well, oathbreaker.” The statue relented, moving back slightly. “I have watched my ancient enemies gather in the last two thousand years. Many survived, asleep in ancient caverns and tombs, forgotten by all, even by my brothers and sisters, and the pagans. But when they reach out from their tombs, I see them clearly. Their stench reviles me, and I feel them. And now I feel a new one, come again. Once killed by my hand, and once more killed by the hands of heroes, greater in bravery and honor than you. But I cannot hope to find someone as brave and honorable as them again.” Sir Helm hummed.

“You will have to do it.”

“Are… Are you g-giving me a divine mission, my lord?” Callum asked, shivering. Sir Helm chuckled slowly.

“A divine mission? No. I give you the chance to prove yourself again, oathbreaker. Take up the hilt of your blade.” Callum did so, slowly. Bladeless, still, the sword was light, considering it was now nothing but the guard, hilt and pommel.

“Look now upon your blade. Once a sign of your knighthood- it is no more. It is cursed. Not by the hand of evil beings, but by myself, for even in my justice and honor, there is wrath. All who are touched by this phantom blade will haunt you. And you shall use his blade as your sole weapon in the hunt for the wretched being that has arisen again. After you slay it- deem yourself free of the whispers of the dead, and then, of your Oath. You will no longer be a Knight. You will be Callum, left to be free, and redeemed.”

Some sort of… emptiness entered Callum. This was a test of character. Of the soul. Finally, the Gods had answered his prayers, only to see him punished for his actions. Indeed, he should have seen it coming. Rather, he should have ignored -reason-. Now, he will fight to not redeem himself as a knight- but as a man. This, Callum, could do. Looking back up at the statue and swallowing down the dryness in his throat, Callum spoke again.

“Who must I hunt, my lord?”

“You will see the dreaded being’s actions well enough when you reach your destination…”

“That being…?”

“Cliffmoore.”