Prologue

   Shouts of victory rang throughout the cavernous stone halls of the recently subjugated fortress. The enemy had been conquered at long last, and the Knights of the Holy Order had triumphed! They had taken one of the Legion of Darkness’ main fortresses. Even though there had been a considerable amount of bloodshed, and they were currently holding the funeral of an honorable commander, they had won in the end.
   The fortress, Death’s Keep, had been among the main bases of the Legion. It was located just north of the Everwinter Tundra, and many wondered why the Knights had chosen such an isolated, vacant and, over all, useless piece of land for such a major establishment. As it turned out, this was exactly the reason the Legion had chosen this site. For these purposes, the garrison would not be a likely target of attack. It would take much effort for the Holy Knights to lead their forces across the Eversummer Plains all the way north from their base in Sacrais so far south. The Holy Knights had another establishment in the small seaport Terrice, but the forces there were not nearly enough to bring down Death’s Keep. Much of the territory far north was occupied by the Legion, therefore aid may be able to come in times of need. Serving only as a barrack in which to train and “store” troops, the heavily guarded fort was no easy target. 
   The siege had lasted months, and had drained them of troops and supplies. Such was expected, trying to bring down a garrison compact with well-trained troops. The plan of seizing the fortress had been dismissed by most, claimed that they were the words of a madman—not outright, of course, no one with a will to live would insult the Head. The march to the base alone was distheartning, as the troops arrived cold, fatigued, and disheartened. Perhaps they had overestimated the foe, or they were downright fortunate. Perhaps the gods smiled down at them, as most believed. What ever their cause, they were not one to complain over the conquest. Death's Keep had been conquered for the first time since the rise of the Legion of Darkness. Truly marking the start of a new age. The casualties went mostly unnoticed.
   The celebrations had begun. Everyone was rejoicing in their triumph. One squire had uncovered barrels of ale stored deep within the fortress, and several Knights had got themselves drunk, much to the disdain of their severe, law-enforcing superiors. Even after the previous Head of the Holy Council—the leader of the Holy Knights, Sir Wendir, was killed. Even after their own base had been attacked, they had ultimately prevailed.
   One of the Knights, however, was not present for the merriment. He was occupied delivering messages. They would usually have pages and messengers for the tedious job, but none were brought on the "suicidal" mission. So this unfortunate Knight was selected to service as a messenger. The last one was for the new Head, Sir Gabion. The Head was not as experienced as the previous, nor was he as skilled. But he had been selected all the same, and won them the battle.
   In the last battle, when their own base had been under siege, many members of the Council had been killed, most likely purposely targeted. Only two — excluding the Head — one of them being absent, had survived of the seven. The enemies had targeted the leaders, knowing that the Knights had little control without their commanders. The base had been saved, due to the help of the loyal Jumarian allies.
   The man rushed around the stone fortress, searching for the Head. None of the Knights he had asked had known the commander was. He finally arrived at the only place he had yet to search—the dungeons. Panting and out of breath, he stopped to rest, leaning on a nearby wall. The cells were just around the corner. Hearing voices, the Knight froze and listened, holding his breath.
   “Should we?” a voice asked.
   “It seems that we have no other choice,” another answered.
   “He may prove useful.”
   “No, he is too large of a threat. We shall do it in the proper fashion.”
   Confusion and fear swirled in the manes mind, but he felt that he should not be a part of it and continued to listen.
   A group of people chanted soft murmurings. The strange lilting words started soft and slow, rising to a swift, high crescendo and gradually died down. A chill went down the Knight’s spine. If evil could be portrayed as a voice, he believed that this would be it. 
   “And now in the name of our gods, we shall execute you!”
   Shocked, the man peered around the corner, making certain that his presence went unnoticed. The glint of the axe in the Head’s hands caught his eye. He looked just in time to see the axe blade swing in a mighty arc, and hit the enemy’s commander right on target. A gruesome sound echoed in the stone walls. The commander’s head rolled over in his direction, eyes wide open and blank.
   The Knight felt like vomiting, but thankfully, did not. Being on several campaigns, he was a long time companion of death. However, this was not another death on the battlefield, forgotten with the many others whose blood was spilt, and brought him to feel ill. Had he been discovered, he would have likely met the same fate as that of the enemy. Only the members of the Council had been present at the execution. Undoubtedly, this was supposed to be kept secret.
   The man had never felt worse. They had just unlawfully executed the enemy. It was murder to kill one unarmed and defenseless. It was against the Holy Knights’ own laws. An enemy prisoner had every right to receive respect and insured safety. It was all the worse for the enemy had known the Head’s intentions, and had saluted him as a last act before he met his fate. This was another code of conduct; stand tall and never falter under the face of the enemy. Never fail to show respect. That the enemy should be taking to their rules? He had always believed the Council just, however what he had seen in one night brought him to deny it.    
   The message was never delivered.

1
Shadows of the Past

   Trudging from the icy paths of the Everwinter Tundra, a weary traveler and his horse reached a city at long last. They had survived the critical climate of the Tundra, and judging by the blood on the man’s armor and sword, had also braved many battles.
   Both were at the point of collapse, the hard days leaving their mark. Crossing the Everwinter Tundra is a mighty feat, one that many would not risk to attempt. The Everwinter Tundra truly lived up to its name, for the iciness of an everlasting winter never hinted summer. Although the temperatures are bone chilling, not a single flake of snow was to be seen, making it easier to die of dehydration than in most deserts.
   Without the warmth of a fire or warm clothing (neither of which the traveler had, for there were no trees for firewood, nor did he have the time or gold for the luxuries of fine clothing), one would likely suffer from hypothermia or extreme frostbites. The only source of food (providing that you did not bring enough to last the long, perilous journey), were the Everwinter berries that the Tundra was famed for. It was rumored that the elves use these honeysweet berries to make their wine. How they managed to acquire the berries that grew so far away from their homeland was a mystery.
   The man was wearing a overcoat—marked with the insignia of a dragon spiraling up a sword, wings fanned at the hilt—on top of knee-length, sleeveless chain mail, and below that, a leather tunic and breeches. The insignia was the symbol of the Holy Knights. Only lightly armored, the Knight most likely was one of the few of his order who was proficient with the bow, most preferring a two-handed broadsword, and wearing the traditional full armor. The fact that the man is a Knight would explain his reason for traveling from the north.
   The Holy Knights had just been on a campaign to capture the enemy Legion of Darkness’ fortress, which was located just north of the Tundra. The Knight most likely crossed the Tundra from there.
   The Knight may have once bore a shining silver-white shield that with not only the symbol of the Holy Knights, but his personal coat of arms—a gold gryphon, symbol of wisdom, fortitude, virtues, courage, and honor, backed by twilight blue. However it was now cast away in the tundra, the Knight lacking the will to carry it further.
   The crest was that of the Ironsword family. This, of course, was not the Knight’s true heritage, but an adopted one for his true family name was nothing but that of a farmer. He had traded everything—his life, his legal family(although he still feels closer to his true family, despite the time away), and even his name from a common one to the more Knightly Haydar—in favor of a chance at Knighthood. Now he wished that he had not given his old life up, he had just made a large error, taken the wrong lane in life.
   He had been given a chance of achieving his every childhood dream, and he had eagerly accepted. He had easily achieved Knighthood, and ascended in the ranks, bringing him the pride and honor he never had in his youth. He had been able to earn praise from his father, and bring his family glory. All this he had been offered, attained, and now it had all been taken away. This knowledge made a mark on him, one too deep to ever be healed.
   ‘I will never go back. I will never return to those fools.’
   Haydar thought this repeatedly in his head. He had made such a large mistake. To ever trust those selfish liars seemed such impossibility now. They had not done it for the greater good of the world, as he had once thought. Neither did they do it to save their allies, as they had said. They did out of selfishness. For themselves and their safety. They were not the ones dying in battle, knowing pain and death.
   Even if they were on the side of the light, they were inferior to the dark. They were not truthful and loyal, as were the others who were supposedly evil. If the supposed enemies could keep their honor, why couldn’t the good, the ones with natural light qualities?
   Now he understood that they were not good. Underneath their shining armor that played as a mask for the decay within. They had good purposes, and opposed the evil, but they were greedy and their hearts black. They did not have the sense of honor or nobility, which they were so famous for.
   Haydar had escaped during a battle, something considered dishonorable, and could be punished with death. Even though he valued honor and loyalty, he had fled thinking he had done the right thing.
   The side he had fought on, the Holy Knights, had been holding Death’s Keep, the fortress of their enemy—the Legion of Darkness—under siege. The moment the Holy Knights’ siege had seemed to be failing, the leaders, had left, abandoning their troops to fight to their deaths. The Knights had bravely fought on, willing to die in battle. They had been informed that their general and several other members of the Holy Council who had come for the battle had supposedly retreated to help some allies. The Knights had believed them so willingly, and so had he. But two weeks later, when reinforcements were sent and they managed to storm the fortress, prevailing, the leaders had returned, saying that their allies were in good hands. Then too, he had trusted them. 
   It was only when he had witnessed something that was supposedly secret, that he had seen past their veil of lies.
   He was supposed to deliver a message to the Head, when he had seen it. He had witnessed his Head execute the enemy commander—dishonorable, and against the strict unforgiving measure that the Knights lived and breathed by.
   His message was never delivered.
   For the next day, he had run away while the enemy attacked, trying to reclaim Death’s Keep. The Knights had been caught unawares by this sudden attack, and he had fled in the midst of havoc, unnoticed. His position as an archer had aided him in slipping away unnoticed. He had not killed one in that battle, just rode swiftly. Vowing to never return, he felt sick at heart.
   His comrade mage, Elaina, the only one he had ever loved, slain by a well-aimed arrow during the siege for Death’s Keep. She had died in his arms, and he could remember her last words, the words that they had said together in a private grove, “Love lasts beyond life and death, beyond the earth and sky. Love is truly immortal…I will remember you.” So delicate and beautiful… When he closed his eyes he could still see her pale rose complexion, feel the thick, lustrous golden curls flowing down her back, hear the laughter like silver chimes… Yet as proud and self-assured as a warrior. He had thought that he had forgotten, but deep inside he knew that he did not, and never would. If only she were here now, standing strong beside him…
   Blinking back tears, he hardened his resolve. He had to move on, and leave the past behind.
   Now that he was free of them, and was no longer blinded by lies, he pondered what the truth had been. The enemies had not surrendered. They would have rather faced death that defeat. This was how he felt it should be. If the Knights’ base was attacked, he was sure the leaders would have happily given in.
   And I killed the troops with them, he realized, we killed all of them. All of the noble warriors. We killed the town’s defenders mercilessly, just like the orcs and other monsters did to us. We are no better than them.
   Did the other Knights know this truth? Or were they still fighting and dying honorably, and keeping their loyalty to the cowardly leaders who would easily leave them all to their deaths if it meant that it would profit them? He was regretful for leaving his fellow Knights and companions to their fates, however what could he have done?
   Haydar felt lost. He hadn’t had a chance to recover his bow and arrows. He had left all his money in the rush of battle. All he had were his sword, his steed, and the clothes on his back.
   The weather reflected his mood and inner turmoil. The sky was dark with storm clouds, and the wind blew mercilessly. The autumn leaves of dull shades of brown and yellow were blown off the braches, the trees bending. Haydar wondered if the gods were also in his state of loss. He wrapped his free arm around him in a futile attempt for warmth. Even though the weather was harsh, he would not have minded some rain. He had been traveling across the icy, dry tundra, and longed for water. The last of his supply had run out a few days ago, and he had had to share it with his horse. He gave it a good deal of his supply, for without it, he would have never survived this far.
   Tightening his grip on the makeshift lead rope, he looked at his steed, Faith, and he wondered whether the Knights too, had influenced her. No, they could not have. She was, after all, only a horse. Yet she somehow seemed to understand him. Faith was his only companion now. He feared she would be for quite some time. Staring towards the lights of the town with squinting eyes, he trudged determinedly forward, fearing collapse.
   The clouds finally gave in, and it started to pour heavily. Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed across the dark sky. The dusty road soon turned to mud. Wind howled and trees swayed in its might. This storm would last long.
   Haydar gazed into the sky, squinting as raindrops pelted his eyes. His right arm stung, and he had a vague memory of a wound there, caused by an arrow grazing it during his escape. He had not realized his horrible condition. Much blood had been lost, but at least the wound was not infected, whatever god had decided to give him that stroke of luck amidst his shadowed fate. Warily, he knelt over, greedily drinking water from a small flow of water. The water tasted sweet after the many days in dehydration.
   After a drink, Haydar stood back against a tree and stroked Faith’s mane. He looked down at his bloodstained uniform and sword. The blood of the noble enemies. The Holy Knights’ insignia was forged onto each. The image of a dragon, spiraling up a sword, wings fanned at the hilt gleamed in the faint light. He stared at this for moments, thinking. In a sudden rage, he tore off his chain mail and overcoat, and threw it into the mud, so it could drown there, forgotten, along with his memories. However, he hesitated when he tried to do the same with his sword.
   His first sword, forged by his hand as was the tradition. Its fine blade glinted before his eyes. He storm raged on, but the pure, flawless blade was unaffected. The rain washed the blood and dirt off the magnificent two handed weapon. So many memories of the past surged into his mind, stinging him. All a lie. He had lived in lies and dreams. He should have followed his elder brother’s footsteps, and went with the Dark Legion, or perhaps remained home. He had thought his brother foolish then. How shamed he felt now. He returned it to the scabbard strapped onto his back. Sighing, he leaned again a nearby oak, staring at the distant town and wondering what was to come of his life.
   His dirty-blond hair was dripping in the rain, his once clean-shaved face grown over. A well-worn, brown leather tunic, bound at the waist by his dagger belt, and a pair of breeches of the same material covered his muscular features. This was his only garments since he disposed of his armor. The dripping, tattered clothes did nothing to shelter him from the cold weather as he stood shivering.
   Even though she was shook by the storm, Faith had not panicked, and was calmed by the water. She and her rider stood in the rain, stood in misery. They were rinsed clean from blood, sweat, and impurity.