A Knight to Remember

It was a cold night, the inky black sky was cloudy, no stars shone on this night. The spruce woods that bounded the sides of the narrow forest road were dark and brooding, the air was still. Suddenly there echoed through the oppressive darkness the distant sound of metal clanking. As it drew nearer and nearer snowthrush flitted deeper into the woods at the sound, their cries of alarm breaking the stillness. The flap of their snow white feathers the only other disturbance in the frigid air.

Roien marched alongside nine of his brothers in arms down the icy forest lane. The twin ruts of carts were filled with frozen over slush that periodically broke under their armoured tread and splashed freezing water over their legs. But he didnt care, his thick insulated leggings he wore under the steel plate were waterproofed and quite warm.

He glanced around to the other guardsmen that marched alongside him in rows of two. Officer Hamlet walking at the front of their small column, his steel armour slightly more reinforced and his helmet adorned with the insignia of his rank. He was a good man, and had led their formation into combat and peacekeeping operations for nearly four years now. He was as dedicated an officer as Roien had ever had the privilege to serve under.

Their mission tonight was a simple one. On tonight, the night of the annual fire festival, there were many reported disturbances as those made rowdy by drink or herb toddled around causing minor havoc. He smiled and shook his head. He could well remember his first taste of oomrin at the fire festival as a younger man. The strange brew had burned his lips and gut, the warmth it gave like unto that projected by the great bonfire he had danced around with Lila Jane, his one true love and now his wife of seven years. The thoughts of his family were dashed from his mind as Officer Hamlet shouted a command suddenly.

“Two by two formation, Halt!” The command rang through the frozen air like the peal of a silver bell. For a moment it echoed in Roien’s ears, then another sound began to become apparent.

It was the sound of festivities, of people laughing and musical instruments. Some of the other guards shifted in their stances slightly. Obviously hearing the sounds of merriment as well.

One of the others spoke quietly, clearly trying not to be heard by Hamlet. “Oi, I hope we get a change to take a slug of oomrin before the night gets too old for my tastes.” a few of the others snickered which caused Hamlet to whirl around, his cold blue eyes as hard as the ice along the shores of the Western Ocean.

Hamlet seemed to think for a moment before his face softened slightly, as much as a block of wrought iron can be said to soften. “I understand that many of you would rather be celebrating the festivities with your families. But remember the oath we swore to protect Drevia from all threats. Both outside and in. We are here to settle a disturbance, please keep your wits about you, there are many strange folks about this night.”

With that he turned and gave the order to advance. And they did. Hamlet might be well known for his icy nature, but so too was he known for his ability to command the respect and love of his men. Roien smiled in spite of the cold that nipped at the exposed portion of his face. His clean shaven features shadowed by the bright full moon above.

They walked another hundred meters or so before the tall spruce trees gave way for a larger clearing. Roien could see the buildings, the small village of Optunia was to the far south of the Capital. The space was dominated by several small craftsman shops and the large dark structure of an Inn in front of which was a large bonfire burning in the village center. The scattered silhouettes of many small houses could be seen further in the distance. The bonfire was surrounded by a multitude of villagers in ceremonial garb.

He smiled as the sight of the frolicking villagers in their dark clothes brought back memories of celebrations long past again. The black petticoats and red rimmed dresses of the women making him think of the first time he had seen his own beloved.

Hamlet led them past this celebration, the light of the conflagration dancing along the guardsmen’s armour and casting pretty glittering reflections on the walls of the houses they passed. Many of the locals slowed their wild prancing celebrations to stare at them, their dark eyes and shadowed faces giving them a decidedly more sinister vibe than their previously bright festivities had before.

Roien swallowed. Many of the outer villages didn’t see the guard very often except when trouble was afoot, much like tonight. Many of them were probably wondering what kind of trouble had just blown into their small town.

Roien couldn't feel sorry for them, he had grown up in just this kind of small border village after all. A tiny place called Northpeak that was pretty much only known for the quality of oomrin that it produced.

Officer Hamlet led their small band towards the large structure of the Inn. As they approached Roien made out the sign hanging above the door. It showed a stylized picture of a snowviper with fluffy white angel’s wings, it was reared back as if ready to strike, its wings fully outswept. He shuddered, he was damn glad snowvipers didn’t have wings. They were as fast as oiled lightning already.

Hamlet stomped up the the shuttered double doors and stood at attention. “Troop, Halt.”

Roien stopped and stomped his feet in unison with his battle brothers. Hamlet turned and gestured to the doors, “Okay, defensive postures. Stay in loose pursuit formation and keep your weapons ready. I have been warned that the perpetrators inside are very dangerous and will not hesitate to use violence to get their way. Three villagers have already been injured by them and a fourth was killed over a dispute involving a bottle of oomrin.”

He nodded to them and then strode through the doors, his longsword held low and to the ready as Roien and the other guards followed him inside.

The inside of the Inn was as cozy as could be, the stout wooden tables and chairs that sat about the room were simple but well built. Likely made by some local craftsman and had the look of age to them. Many of the tables had red candles flickering on them, as did several of the windowsills. What immediately caught his attention wasn’t the pleasant furnishings or the hunched villagers in their dark garb, instead his eyes were drawn to the four figures seated at the far table next to the tavern section.

The long bar was manned by a young woman in a dark red rimmed dress, her eyes red and one cheek dark and swollen. It was obvious to Roien immediately that she had been struck by a gloved hand. And her abusers were likely the very same four that sat near her now, laughing and sharing a hearty meal of meat stew and heated oomrin or mead.

Their laughter quickly faded as the guards entered the large room and Hamlet raised his sword towards them. “In the name of the king, you are under arrest for disturbing the peace of this night and for the assault and murder of a citizen of his kingdom. You have the privilege to remain silent, I recommend that you use it.”

One of the accused sat back into his chair and laughed, the other three following suit. The first man then stood and placed his hand on the large sword scabbard at his hip. He was tall, his face a mess of scars and the dark pits of his eyes held no mirth or joy. His long brown hair was tied in an intricate braid that flowed down his armoured back.

He glanced at his companions and then issued a challenge of sorts. “I don’t think so. Me and my mates are having a jolly good time here, I think we’ll stay.” and then he gave another booming laugh, this one had a cruel tinge to the underside as his companions laughed too.

Roien drew his own keensteel longsword as the other three accused stood. One was a huge mountain of a man, his face twisted by a goofy grin that never seemed to reach his beady eyes. The other two were smaller, one wearing a dark hood that shrouded their features, the glint of yellow eyes making Roien shiver in spite of his training. The last member of the group was hard to look at, not for some great deformity or horrible visage, but because they looked so incredibly blandly ordinary that Roien’s eyes kept slipping from them as if they were simply part of the background.

The leader with the long braided hair took a step forwards and drew his sword, Hamlet taking a single step back at the implied threat. The blade of the man’s sword was white, not like that of silver or steel. But a deathly ghostly white hoarfrost color, or the color of a frozen corpse. Its slightly blue tinged blade seemed to drip with implied danger and the sudden aura of suffering it exuded made Roien’s head throb slightly.

He shook his head to clear it, he wasn’t some miser’s son trapped in a dark alley with nothing to his name but the sound of his own fearful heart beating. He was a royal guardsman, a loyal and righteous protector of the weak and downtrodden. He raised his sword in defiance of the deplorables resisting the call to justice in their midst.

In response nine other weapons were thrust high into the air as his brothers followed suit. They would not be intimidated nor ignored. Officer Hamlet glanced at them and then to the four that stood against them. “You will come with us, whether kicking or dragged behind the corpse cart it matters little to me. I will see you all hanged before the marrow is out.” he declared.

The lead man just shook his head and retorted simply, “Oh. I don’t think so.”

Roien jerked as the larger man lashed out towards Hamlet with that terrible sword, it made contact with the officer’s guarding stance. As the two swords collided there was a horrible shrieking noise, like metal cables being pulled apart under some immeasurable strain.

Roien’s eyes bulged as Hamlet’s sword was shattered into a thousand spinning fragments of shimmering steel. The man was thrown back with a yell of pain and surprise, he landed at Roien’s feet, and he gasped at the sight. The man’s face was a ruin of tattered flesh, the shattered steel fragments having torn his flesh and taken his eyes as if they had been grapes under the press.

He clearly heard one of the other guards gagging as Officer Hamlet writhed in silent agony, their throat slashed open as wide as another lipless mouth. The gurgles of their flooding lungs a horrible accompaniment to the cackling laughter of his killers.

Roien looked up towards the criminal, hatred clouding his vision as the man smiled and brandished that terrible sword.

He watched as the man hefted the weapon and pointed it directly at his heart. “You should run away little tin soldier, before Icicle spills your essence like that poor waste of flesh dying at your feet.”

Roien slammed his fist into his chest, as the most senior of the soldiers that remained standing, he knew the others would be looking to him for both guidance and confidence. He could not afford to show any fear or uncertainty. They outnumbered the four more than two to one still, and they would no longer hold the total element of surprise.

He raised his voice high as the last few villagers scrambled fearfully out of the room leaving it empty save for the criminals and his guardsmen. “We won’t cower to the likes of you. You have sealed your fates, the murder of one of his royal guardsmen carries the sentence of death. Attack!” he shouted with his whole chest before lunging forward towards the man who had killed Hamlet. He heard a great cry as his brothers charged not a heartbeat behind.

Roien’s vision narrowed as the adrenaline coursed through his system. Years of fighting and drilling experienced were fueled by the rage that sang from his heart like the hungry cries of a wolf at the moon. He charged and met the man, parrying the large man’s first blow. The impact of it sent shivers up his arms from the contact and he instantly recognised frost magic at play. The man had likely imbued his weapon with the terribly potent magicks, any direct contact with that weapon would be debilitating. He had to avoid being struck at all costs.

He dodged to the side and then shouted as the blade changed direction lightning quick, narrowly missing his throat. It must either weigh as little as a feather or the man must be prodigiously strong. Roien took three steps back and sucked in several great breaths as he and the braided man circled each other warily. From all around them came the sounds of combat and the grunts and cries of pain of people fighting and dying.

He couldn't allow himself to get distracted however, not when his life hung in such terrible balance.

He stumbled slightly as he stepped on something that squished under his boot. The big man used the opportunity to lash out at him, the white blade scoring a line across his steel chestplate. Roien immediately felt a terrible cold seeping into his chest, the potent magicks of the blade slowing his muscles and making it more difficult to focus.

He growled in anger and lashed out in a counter attack as the other man withdrew. Even as clumsy and shoddy as the move was, it seemed to catch the man off guard as surprise flitted across his grizzled face. Roien’s blade had failed to do any lasting damage, but he had in turn scored a small cut on the larger man’s outer thigh. The thin trickle of blood proved to him that the other man was in fact just as mortal as he.

With renewed vigor, Roien pushed his offensive. Now sure that if he just put the other man on the backfoot, he would emerge victorious. His armour should protect him and his training would see his victory assured and these killers dead.

As he swung and parried the other man’s attacks he smiled. He could feel himself winning, the fight slowly pushing them towards the back wall, soon the thug would have nowhere to retreat to.

All at once the other man snarled and shouted. “Enough, this ends now!”

He thrust out his hand and shouted something, Roien didn’t make out the words of the guttural language but felt their effect. The air around him began to thicken, imperceptibly at first but then growing as viscid as molasses. He felt as if he were moving in slow motion, his blows now deflected easily by the widely grinning man. He saw the other man go for a stab towards his legs and was powerless to halt the blow. He screamed as the burning cold touch of the weapon pierced into his upper thigh in the same spot he had wounded the other man.

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The pain was intense and he knew at once that it was a killer blow. Not fatal in itself, but one that would kill him due to slowing his ability to move.

All at once the slowing field dissipated, likely the spell’s duration had run its course. But it was already too late. He tried to sidestep another blow but his leg gave out under him. He collapsed to the floor as the other man’s attack sailed through the air where his head had been a moment before.

He rolled over onto his back and crawled backwards for a few meters before he felt the unyielding surface of the wall halt his progress. He looked around for support and saw to his horror that his brother’s were all down.

Some of them still writhed or groaned in pain, but worse still were the few that didn’t. Their still forms lying where they had fallen, pools of bright red blood spreading from their rapidly cooling remains.

He looked back towards the man who would be his executioner. He was strolling his way in a leisurely manner. His face a mask of glee, glee that might have twisted the scarred features of his lips, but one that never touched the soulless dark pits of his eyes. It was the face of a killer, a murderer. One not stranger to the act of taking lives, deserved or not.

Roien groaned as he shifted, the throbbing pain of his leg forcing him to look down at it. He shivered at the sight of his flesh, blackened and dead around the wound. It wasn’t too deep and likely would not cause him to lose the limb, but it was bad regardless. Such magical wounds never healed properly, the mar going deeper than simply the flesh. Such blighted wounds were often stated to be wounds on one’s soul. Scars to their very essence.

While he didn’t believe in all the mumbo jumbo that the more fanatical elite seemed to, he agreed that it was likely not going to be something he could simply walk off.

Not that he was ever going to get the chance to try.

He glared at the man painfully as he approached and loomed over him. “Who are you, that I may curse your name in the halls of the dead?” Roien demanded. If he was to die then he might as well die defiantly.

The man chuckled and placed the tip of his sword against Roien’s chestplate. Almost immediately, fingers of frost started to slowly worm their way across his scored steel plate. The man spoke slowly as he twisted the blade harder. “I am Thorn, the sticker in the side of this pitiful rabble you call a kingdom. And I am your death.”

The man laughed, a laugh echoed by at least one of his minions that stood in the midst of his battle brothers remains.

The cold had seeped through the insulating layer of his undercloak now, Roien winced as his chest began to burn from the cold. Thorn gestured to him and began again. “You put up a good fight I must admit, far more than any of those other rats you barged in here with. What is your name soldier?”

“Roien!” he spat with the last dying vestiges of his defiance. The burning had become numbness now, the sensation spreading through his body like a cancer as the terrible blade remained in contact with his chestplate. He couldn't move, his arms and legs would not obey his commands. He felt his breathing becoming ragged as the cold seeped ever deeper.

And then it stopped. The blade was withdrawn from his chest as Thorn stepped back from him. At first Roien thought this was in preparation for some new torture, some even crueler atrocity to be wrecked across his helpless flesh.

But another sound reached his ears. He frowned, his facial muscles some of the only ones seeming to still be under his control.

From outside the Inn a horse whinnied, that was strange. There had been no horses in the village that he could see when they had walked in. Maybe one of the villagers had not heard of the commotion and had stopped by for a stiff drink?

No, it was not that he realised as the sound of heavy footsteps was heard. It was something else, something far more terrible.

The steps reached the doors of the establishment and stopped. By this point Thorn and his three companions had backed up to the far side of the room. Thorn looked warry, maybe even a little afraid. His companions looked the same, well except for the big dumb oaf with the ridiculous grin plastered across his face. Though the way the huge man fingered the handle of his large mace made it apparent he was just as nervous as the others.

The doors were blasted open with such force that one of them simply gave up trying to resist and was sent cartwheeling across the room where it came to rest against the side of the bar.

Roien looked at the doorway, and his fears dissolved as the mist on a bright summers morning.

It was a black knight. One of the fiercest and most potent of Drevia’s military forces. The best of the best, the strongest protectors of the realm. The knight stepped into the room with heavy steps, stopping just inside the threshold. Their darksteel armour glistened in the guttering lights, their tattered red magecloak rippled slowly in a breeze that Roien couldn't feel. Almost as if it were moving of its own accord. The accents of the huge champion’s armour were as red as the blood of his brothers that had been spilled by the murderers that cowered on the far side of the room.

The effect of this unknown’s presence upon the room was such as to immediately shift the balance of power in their favor.

They took another step into the room and surveyed the carnage, their gaze lingering on each and every one of his fallen brothers with a care that belied their true feelings. Though Roien couldn't help but get a sense of sorrow from the figure, as if the deaths of his troop were a great stain on an otherwise perfect canvas they had been working to create for a lifetime.

He shivered as he felt the knight’s gaze fall upon him. The knight stopped, seeming to look at him for longer than the others. Roien couldn't speak, his breathing was coming in short painful gasps as the sensation of a million hot needles crawled through his defrosting body. But he managed to nod to the knight.

A nod, that was it. Such a simple gesture, but so full of meaning in this instance. The nod signified a passing on of responsibility. It signified to the knight that his troop had done the best they could, and had failed. The knight simply straightened and drew a jet black longsword from the tall scabbard across their back. The single movement as smooth as silk and as graceful as a breeze.

It signified more than just skill and balance, but a calm surety of focus born of decades of the harshest training imaginable. The black knights were more than just soldiers, they were beacons of hope in a time dark with tyranny and war, a solid symbol of the might of Drevia and the will of her hardened people.

The knight raised the sword and pointed it straight armed at the four huddled criminals, the unwavering blade must have been heavy. But it didn't so much as twitch in the knight’s grip, their strength impressive and their focus infinite.

Roien sucked in a surprised breath as the smallest criminal, the one with the bright eyes and shadowed face, leapt forwards towards the knight. The other criminals split apart and rushed the knight as well, their goal clearly to encircle them while they were occupied with the quick one.

In a flash the two met, the twin blades of the hooded thug sparking from the dark blur of the knight’s sword. Despite their incredible speed, the knight was even faster. Their bulky armour seemingly not a hindrance to their remarkable stamina as they parried every single blow with ease. The simplicity of their blocks making it seem as if it were mere child's play to them, and indeed it must have been for not more than a heartbeat later they exploited an opening in the frustrated man’s defense. Their gauntleted fist lashing out to strike a powerful blow to the side of the hooded man’s head.

With a sound like a snapping branch the knight’s opponent crashed to the floor with a violence that surprised even Thorn. The big man having taken up a position near to the knight’s left flank.

“Kalexus Noooo!” the big brute with the dumb grin shouted. He lifted his huge battle cleaver and charged, their shoulder low as they prepared to bulldoze the black armoured figure off their feet.

Roien saw Thorn shout at the big man to stop, but it was too late. Effortlessly the knight sidestepped the big brute of a man and with a single motion slashed their greatsword up their back. Flaying the man’s spine in twain.

The big man tried to turn, the shocked look on their face the one of a man who has not yet realised they are dead. With a simple grunt the giant crashed to the Inn’s floor. The ground shaking with the force of their impact.

In only two moves the knight had halved their competition. And despite the awe that filled Roien’s breast, he knew that the fight was not yet over.

The two he had watched the knight slay were clearly the weakest of the group. Thorn and his silent companion, the man who was hard to look at, were all that remained.

The black knight stood back at the ready, the bloodied sword held straight and high in front of them. Their posture was ready and their stance relaxed. They didn't seem to have stressed themselves any more than Roien would have if he had been walking to the kitchen.

It was an incredible sight to behold. Roien had of course heard all the stories of the black knights, their exploits and deeds were the stuff of legend. But to see it for himself, first hand. He felt something change in his very soul, a deep yerning that he had not felt before was manifest in him. Like the sirens call to lonely sailors that would inexorably drag them to their doom. He was powerless to resist.

Roien called out weakly, his voice a bare whisper, “Thorn is wounded. I cut his leg.”

Despite the weakness of his voice, the knight seemed to hear his comment as they glanced towards the man in question.

The black knight seemed to come to a decision as they leapt towards the silent man like a dark blur. The silent man made no noise as they raised their own mace. Roien’s eyes widened once more as the weapon parried the darksteel sword in a shower of sparks, the head of the mace beginning to glow first a deep cherry red and then a more sinister orange as it heated. These men were equipped with powerful relics, the mana drain must have been immense, but Roien got the impression that this was far from the large man’s first fight.

The two fought back and forth, the darkness of the black knight’s armour seeming to absorb the whitening glow of the terrible mace the hard to look at man held. He watched in horrid fascination as the mace slammed into the knight’s armoured midriff. He half expected the knight to tank the blow unflinchingly, but this was not the case. They may have been the pinnacle of human training and armorsmithing, but they were still human at the end of the night.

The knight was knocked back a full step, a slight grunt issuing from their visored helmet as the blow left a curl of smoke gently rising from the slightly dented plate. This was just enough of an opening for Thorn to try and stab the dark figure in the back.

Once more Roien found themself surprised as the knight’s tattered cloak seemed to harden in an instant, making Thorn’s attack rebound to the side sharply. The black knight spun, their dark sword slashing out in a wide killing act towards Thorn’s throat, but through some manner of either skill, precognition or luck, the murdering criminal managed to slip just out of range. The blow still managed to catch the edge of their overcoat however, the violent tearing sound making Roien’s blood curdle. Thorn stumbled back another pace but seemed unhurt, the large scar-faced man approached again. This time much more warily.

The fight was intense, but with the knight’s superior armour it was only a matter of time until they got the upper hand on the more lightly armoured criminals, tired out their opponents or just caught them in a deadly mistake.

In the meantime the fight continued on, whirling blows and counter jabs making Roien’s eyes swim as he tried to take in the almost inhumanly fast movements. The silent man went for a strong overhead blow, the kind that seemed telegraphed for an easy counter. Roien watched as the black armoured knight blocked it easily and then avoided the shield bash that the thug had aimed at their chest. As they sidestepped a narrow window opened, so quick that Roien scarcely noticed it from his position on the floor.

But the knight’s eyes were keen. Their great black sword slipped through the small gap in the large blond haired man’s otherwise impeccable guard. Without a sound the two of them whirled apart, the knight taking an extra step back as the unremarkable features of the silent man twisted in first confusion and then pain.

Thorn yelled out as a spurt of blood issued from the neck of the blond haired man before they fell to their knees, hands clasping their slashed throat. “You son of a whore! I will kill you!”

The black knight said nothing, their silent defiance far more intimidating than any words could have been. As the blond haired man finally succumbed and slumped backwards Thorn charged the knight with a shout of anger, their enchanted relic sword Icicle held at a low ready.

They clashed, the sound terrible and epic in equal measure. The enchanted darksteel of the knight’s great sword caught the ghastly white edge of Thorn’s relic. Sparks issued from the contact, the opposing enchantments were of such potency that their very contact spat small arcs of energy outwards like magefire from a sorcerer's fingertips.

One of the sparks reached out and ignited a tablecloth on one of the still standing tables nearby. The curls of smoke began to obscure the battle, the glimpses of the fight that he could make out now taking on an almost slide-like quality.

A flash of bright steel as the vambrace of Thorn’s armour deflected a blow aimed for his neck, the dark glimmer of the knight’s pauldron as Icicle skipped across its reinforced surface. The tiny sparkles of ice as it froze for a moment caught the light and caused it to dance for a moment, the sparkles shining through the obscuring smoke like the stars that hid from view on this dark night.

The smoke soon began to thin once more as the cold wind blew through the shattered doorway. Roien gasped slightly as the knight stepped back and got their leg tangled in a fallen chair, the furniture causing them to stumble.

Thorn cackled in glee and lashed out towards the knight’s exposed back, and then grunted in confusion as their icy weapon rebounded off the knight’s tattered red cloak. The cloak had stiffened, a slight blue glow emanating from it as the fabric suddenly became as hard as cast steel.

Thorn’s guard was down, the man reeling from the rebound shock that must have numbed his entire arm, it was a wonder they had even managed to hold onto their weapon at all. But the peace was short-lived. The black knight passed their sword under one arm in a bold backwards stab, the darksteel weapon passing under the reeling criminal’s guard and into their thigh precisely where Roien’s own sword had previously scored a hit.

Thorn cried out in pain and leapt back, blood now oozing much more freely from the rent in their leather armour. The knight advanced and Thorn stumbled back, the fear that had been hiding below now showing clearly on their battered face. They raised their sword arm as they stumbled over the corpse of a guardsman and landed heavily on their back.

Roien expected the knight to say something pointed, to give a last venomous dictation. But instead they stepped close and slashed their sword through the fallen man’s wrist. As Thorn screamed in pain and the cursed sword went spiraling away, the knight plunged their darksteel sword into the man’s heart.

Thorn jerked, his last gurgling breaths cut short as the black knight stomped down on the writing murderer’s throat, the cartilage crushing with a sickening crack.

Roien felt himself letting out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. His arms and legs were no longer numb, but his strength was spent. He would not have been able to rise on his own even had he wanted to. He felt his eyes growing heavy and struggled to remain awake.

He watched as the knight cleaned their blade on the fox fur collar of the man’s overcoat and then sheathed the dark blade in the scabbard hidden under their own red cloak. Without ceremony or fanfare the black knight turned from the corpse and strode towards the door next to Roien.

Roien wanted to say something, to offer his awe or express his gratitude. But the words wouldn't come to him. It was as if his mind had been frozen too, the fight having lasted mere minutes. But it had felt like a lifetime since he had strode through those broken doors with such righteous confidence. Now his brothers lay dead or dying, he too might not make it through the night, he could see the paleness of his skin. The blood he had lost surrounded his body in a small puddle.

While the bleeding had finally slowed and then stopped, he knew he was not in any condition to be running back to the fort to report the disaster.

The knight walked towards the door, and then stopped. Roien’s breath caught in their throat once more as the imposing black figure turned their visored gaze towards him. He felt the cold, nearly inhuman eyes of the thing that had made such quick work of his brother’s murderers. Then the gaze seemed to soften, the warmth of it seeming to give his muscles life once more.

He coughed and then looked back at the knight.

He looked up at the knight who then spoke to him in a voice like that of distant thunder over the mountains, of the waves beating upon a rocky shore in a storm. “Drevia honors your dedication guardsman. To protect her people is the purest mission, all of her people.” and with a single nod that Roien shakily returned the figure stalked out into the cold night. He listened to the sounds of the heavy armoured footfalls as they receded into the night. Soon the sound of a horse whining and the sound of galloping hooves rescinding into the dark told him his rescuer was truly gone.

He let his head rest back on the wall behind him, he wanted nothing more than to just close his eyes and sleep, but there were still brothers that may be alive and in need of his help.

He tried to move, but his arms did little more than twitch and his legs remained planted on the floor where he lay. He growled under his breath in frustration and laid his head back against the wall.

He thought about the events of the night, the cold eyes of his battle brother's killers burned in his mind. As did the shock and pain on their faces as they were dispatched one by one. All the sudden he heard a clattering from the far side of the room. He could not have defended himself even had he wanted to, but it was soon apparent there was no need as the young woman with the bruised face scurried out into the room from the far stairs.

She immediately clapped her hands over her mouth and screeched in fear, and he could understand why. The room was in shambles, the carnage and bodies were scattered across the floor without any thought or pattern. She looked around and her eyes met his, hey brown eyes widened and she rushed away.

He let out a sigh. She might have thought him dead, immobile as he was. He thought once more about the words of the knight. The figure’s proclamation of being the protector and their honorable words towards him. He felt a strange feeling take hold of his heart, a sort of burning desire, not physical. But no less real.

Roien nodded painfully to himself, he would become a knight. That was his goal, he was only twenty six. He was more than skilled enough to enter the tryouts, he just needed to get better.

The clattering again, this time the steps were slower and much heavier. He looked over again, this time instead of the petite young girl it was a large portly woman with a handkerchief tied around the top of her head like a shawl. He recognised her as the woman that had been manning the main desk when they had entered the building.

With heavy steps she waddled over to him and knelt by his side heavily.

“Oh my, this looks bad. Can you hear me dearie?” she asked him with what sounded to him like motherly concern.

He just gave a tired nod.

She grabbed a cloth from her apron and wrapped the clean rag around the wound before tightening it.

“Oouughch.” Roien groaned as the pressure bit into the gash.

He felt his vision slipping. A cool hand on his head and the faint words. “He is burning up, fever. Get my medicine.”

But Roien didn’t care anymore. He was drifting, floating aimlessly as his subconscious mind took over. He saw himself as a tall imposing hero in jet black armour, a huge darksteel sword in his hands that he used to cut down an army of evil. In his fitful sleep he smiled, the conviction to his king and country no less fervent than it had ever been, maybe even more so.

And so he slumbered, his recovery slow but his mind undaunted. Strong in the faith that he would achieve greatness in the future, if only he was bold enough to reach out and grasp it with both hands.

End of Story