Prologue

The long road’s clay surface shimmered under the horned moon, lighting a dim path before those that would dare track it by night. The party of three moved ponderously slow, the pace due to the toll the long road seemed to play on those who traveled it rather than any unprofessed apprehensions of where the party was headed. All three were covered head to toe in thick, padded garments made for the cold winters of the northern Vint. Armor sat beneath their blue surcoats, the sigil of House Maneiron barely visible under the layers. Their cloaks were a deep blue, shrouded with shimmering silver, and spotted with the mud and dust of travel. Fur of various beasts once thought of as ferocious draped their shoulders, giving the illusion of warmth in the frosted night air.

Traveling the long road was weary work, and exhaustion was writ upon their faces. The lead of the party slowed to a trot before ultimately stopping, a mailed gauntlet raised in the air signaled the halt. The three sat there in the moonlight for a long moment, eyes cautious, ears perked.

“What did we see?” questioned one of the men. He was a short, billowy man with a gruff three day beard and dark black hair tossed in a mess upon his scalp.

The leader looked around drearily, withholding any answers he may have possessed. He was Sir Fenley Harres, King Maneiron’s Captain of the Guard, no doubt one of the most feared men in the entire empire. His head was covered by sandy blond hair, lightly touched with a gray that was slightly whiter than most that fell over his ears and to his shoulders—though none of that was visible under his steel helmet and mailed hood. His helmet was a gaudy thing, shined to a polish and studded with the sheers and dents of countless battles. The helmet succeeded in shading a face that was as easy to look at as any, if only a few years past its prime. The knight was broad chested, stood six and six with ease, and was thought to be unmatched with a broadsword in his hand. His armor was far superior than that of his companions. His was plate, cream white with golden inlays on the edges of his shoulders, and topped with great golden eagles on each side that clasped his large blue and silver cape in their talons.

“This forest has eyes.” Fear twined the third man’s words as he reined his horse in efforts to keep it lined with the road. “I dare wish we had more than just the three of us.”

“There is nothing to fear in this forest that does not fear us equally.” Sir Fenley said through a clenched jaw. “Knights fret not on the movements of the deer and birds, Mandel, my fool of a squire.”

The man called Mandel—who was not really a man, with only fifteen namedays under his belt—was too busy scanning the trees around him to notice the shot at his pride. He barely noticed the figure standing dead center of the road not forty paces in front of them.

“…what in the name of Alador?” Mandel said under his breath, little more than a whisper.

The leader turned his horse forward and peered ahead curiously. “Who goes there?” he bellowed at the unknown figure, but there was no reply. The figure simply stood ahead of them, silent, unmoving.

“Sir?” the short one asked, seeking orders.

With a nod of his head, Sir Fenley and his companions moved forward, slowly surrounding the figure. A man, no doubt, dressed in a dirt and shit stained wool garb with rips and tears all over it. His head hung towards the ground, clumps of matted brown hair fell over his face and neck.

“Speak, peasant.” The knight looked upon the filthy man with stern eyes, eyes that had seen many men just moments before their deaths. With a look from Sir Fenley, Mandel dropped off of his horse and moved slowly around the man, his eyes never leaving the soiled figure.

“Lift his head. I would look upon this wretch’s face before we run him through.”

The statement drew a smile from the mounted knight to his left, who was not a trueborn noble, but dubbed by Lord Maryll Harres himself just a year before the old lord took ill. Mandel stepped assuredly up to the man, but the slightest tremble was visible in his hands, and the whites of his eyes betrayed any sense of courage he was attempting to display. Moving quickly, Mandel grabbed a handful of the man’s hair with his iron paws and ripped his head back.

A small smile crept across the peasant’s face as his eyes found Sir Fenley’s. The two men still horsed shot peculiar glances at one another, returning them to the filthy man after a moment’s pause.

“Why do you smile, peasant?” Sir Fenley questioned with narrowed eyes, but there was no response, nor did the knight presume there would be. In fact, he had a queer feeling about who this man was, or might be, and wanted nothing more to do with him. It was not worth the time they would waste to slay the measly peasant. No, the old steel was made for honorable men, Sir Fenley knew. He motioned to his man, and Mandel let the peasant’s hair loose, his head sinking downward once more.

“Mount up, Drexel is but a few leagues away. Leave this craven to his business,” he said with a turn of his reigns.

“Sir Fenley, look… the man’s hand, what is that?” The man named Sir Wesros inquired, still sitting atop his meager horse.

Sir Fenley stopped his steed and looked at the man’s hands. At first he saw nothing, but with a closer look he noticed a shimmer in the moonlight. It looked almost coppery, or bronze even. Mandel had yet to remount his horse and moved quickly to the left side of the man as to catch a glimpse.

“What is it?” Sir Fenley demanded.

Mandel grasped the man’s left arm and ripped the glimmering metal from his hand, though the man did not attempt to resist. With a sneer, Mandel studied the piece for a moment, trying to discern what it was.

“Alador be gracious…” Mandel whispered, fear taut on his voice.

It was small and round, though they were wrong to think it bronze or copper, for it was the purest form of gold, smelted by the now extinct coffers of Panthos. It had been hard to recognize due to what must have been years of grime coating it. To a fool it was no more than a gold coin, inlaid on one side with a barely visible half crescent, and worn, etched lettering on the other.

Mandel looked up at Sir Fenley and handed him the small coin. The old knight looked at the object hard and long, despite knowing immediately where it came from, and, more importantly, what it meant.

“Where did you get this, peasant?” the knight demanded. Once again, he was met by silence. “In the name of King Maras, I demand you to tell me how you came about a Panthosi medallion!” He was yelling, though not even he was quite sure whether by anger or by fear.

The filthy man’s head remained lowered, staring at his own feet. His body displayed no intention of moving. In a fit of frustration, the old knight dropped off his mount and strode up to the man, his plate armor clanging noisily with each step. He grabbed a handful of the man’s hair and wrenched his head back, looking him directly in the eyes.

“It is treason to carry the coin of the exiles, craven, as I am sure you are aware. The penalty of such crime is death, one that I will gladly carry out on the likes of you.” Sir Fenley looked back to the knight named Wesros and tossed him the coin. He released the man’s head and began to unsheathe his sword when the man moved with lightning fast precision. The man’s hand whipped past the old knight’s face before the three had a chance to react. Afterwards, as if nothing had happened, the man had moved back in the same position, though his head no longer lulled towards the ground. Instead, his deep blue eyes hooked Sir Fenely’s in a cold, death-filled stare.

Sir Fenley meant to finish pulling his sword when he felt a warm trickle down his chest and into his armor. A deep cold gripped his body then, and the strength in his limbs seemed to have fluttered from his fingertips. He struggled to stay afoot, and, after a moment of vertigo, he staggered backwards, giving in to the wave of nausea—the onslaught of death as it crept its way through his body.

“Sir Fenley?” Mandel said, confusion laden in his voice. His eyes widened as he watched the old knight stumble and fall to his knees, as the deep crimson liquid ran through his armor and out of his mouth. He choked on his own blood as he tried to speak, sputtering and coughing into the night. The knight tried to lift his head up, but as he did the skin separated just under his chin, releasing a gush of dark red blood. He clutched at his throat aimlessly before finally slumping to the ground. His body twitched as a puddle of his life’s blood filtered onto the ground beneath him.

The peasant watched with an alarming intensity, his eyes never leaving the knight, his face never betraying even a hint of emotion. Mandel took hurried steps backwards in attempts to put distance between himself and the murdering stranger. Sir Wesros knew not what to think, though fear was not his first reaction. He grabbed the hilt of his sword and pulled it from its sheath, pointing the blade at the mysterious man.

“Do not move, I command you!” No sooner had the command left the short knight’s throat than the man had leapt forward, careening through the air towards the knight. His agility was mystifying. It seemed as though the man took flight, for he soared over the horse’s head and slammed a closed fist into the knight’s chest, knocking him from the mount and tumbling towards the ground. The peasant, however, did not hit the ground in haste. His left hand found purchase on the dirt as they fell and he vaulted his body into a spin that lasted all but a few seconds, landing him safely in a crouch behind the stunned knight. He threatened a slivering blade against the knight’s neck, and the mysterious man looked over at Mandel with focused eyes.

Mandel was frozen with fear. He had never seen anything like what had just taken place, and he knew not what to think of this would be peasant. “Wh… What do you want?” Mandel managed to squeak out.

The filthy man smiled, his vibrant white teeth shining in the moonlight in complete opposition to his mud-caked body. “Your service,” he said; his voice calm, his breathing normal despite the previous effort.

Mandel dropped to a knee, his body caught in violent shivers as he bowed his head. “I am yours… sir. What would you ask of me?”

“Go and tell your King that Panthos lives. Tell him that I have not forgotten, that I will never forget.” He paused and waited for Mandel to look back up at him.

“I do not know your name, sir?”

The filthy man only looked at him long and hard for a moment before answering. “Tell him that his son has returned.”

Mandel’s eyes widened in obvious, irrevocably clear understanding at who the man was that stood before him. He nodded in obedience and watched as the man moved the blade swiftly across the knight’s throat, opening it in a single movement; spilling his blood onto the ground to join his liege knight. The filthy man then stepped back as the blood gushed from the wound in the second knight’s neck. Wesros coughed and sputtered as he died, his eyes falling into a deep dismay before finally closing forever.

Mandel swallowed heavily and stood cautiously. “My mount, if you please, sire?”

The man patted the garron on its hind quarter, sending it towards the squire. He then watched Mandel jump clumsily onto the saddle, nearly falling off twice, but ultimately finding purchase inside the stirrups. Mandel gave him one last wide-eyed look before he spurred the timid beast off as quickly as it would move, back the way they had come; back towards Harrendom.

The man did not waste another moment. He moved quickly over to the dead knight and grabbed the coin out from where he had tucked it into his armor. He looked it over closely, savoring the meaning of such a coin. Finally he had returned. Finally he would repay the debt that he had held for so very long. Finally he would be free of the guilt that haunted every moment of his existence. It was only a matter of time now before he was pursued, not long before he was hunted. How I have missed those days, he thought.

He caught himself smiling at the thought and mounted the old knight’s steed, grabbing the reins of the other before he started moving. He started off in a slow trot in the opposite direction of the squire, away from Harrendom, never looking back at the two he left slain in the middle of the long road—in the middle of the King’s road, as it were.