“Hell, you say? What do you know of hell? I have
“You sent
“
The Man in White’s eyes narrowed. “I understand all too well. I understand that you will fail. No matter what happens this day, you
“We shall see,” he said ominously. “It’s clear to me now that you cannot be reasoned with as I’d hoped.” The Dark Knight tensed. “And your blood will spill this day for your foolishness.”
In a flash the Dark Knight leapt forward, slashing his blade at the Man in White’s neck. But the Man in White dodged with an unnatural speed and the stroke passed harmlessly.
Again and again the Dark Knight pressed forward, his fury and frustration growing with each unsuccessful blow. Minutes passed, and the Dark Knight had gained no ground. He began to feel the weight of fatigue burning in his muscles. The Man in White did not attempt to strike; his lack of weapon and armor made it easy for him to avoid the onslaught, and his many years of training made his every step perfect. Slowly, the Dark Knight began to understand his peril. He could not keep this up indefinitely. Eventually his strength would be gone, and he would be virtually helpless.
Then, in a desperate gamble, the Dark Knight flung his sword at the left leg of his opponent, causing him to shift right and slightly back. Normally he would never intentionally disarm himself, but this time the gamble worked. With all his strength, he leapt forward, reaching in his belt, and pulling out a small dagger. His body slammed into the Man in White as he plunged it into his heart.
The Man in White gasped and threw his arm around his killer, as both bodies crashed to the floor. The Dark Knight wrenched himself from the Man in White’s grasp, ripping the dagger free. Blood soaked his robe and spilled onto the marble floor. The Man in White’s eyes grew dim as he watched the Dark Knight rise and walk to the statue that held the Sword.
‘This is the end,’ the Man in White thought as death overcame him, ‘…the end of the world. I have failed.’
The Dark Knight reached out and grabbed the hilt of the sword. Lightning flashed as he lifted it from its cradle and held it aloft.
“At last!” he screamed. “At laaaaaaaaast!”
Chapter 1
Gewey Stedding’s wagon rolled up the main avenue of the village of Sharpstone, heavy with its cargo of fall hay. Normally this would be neither exciting nor very important, but recent years had been hard and the sight of commerce filled the villagers with hope. Fall hay meant food for the livestock, meat for the winter, and trade for the spring.
The streets were empty for this time of year. Usually merchants and travelers from up and down the Goodbranch River kept them busy, but over the last several years, trade had slowed to a trickle. The few people that did pass through did not linger and brought little coin. News of trouble and hardship came with each boat and wagon regardless of where they came from. The world was in turmoil, and everyone could feel it.
In better times, Sharpstone would be readying for the Festival of Gerath, god of the earth and mountains. Gewey had eagerly looked forward to the festival each year since he was a boy. It was three days of games, music and some of the best food in the whole kingdom. It ended with the entire town parading to the market square to crown the King and Queen of the festival. As a child, Gewey had dreamed of being crowned King, but as things were, it didn’t look like that would ever happen. Last year, the Village Council cut the festival to one day; this year-with little to celebrate and no money to spare-the festival had been all but forgotten. Only a few elders had hung the traditional pumpkin vines above their door, and no one had decorated the statue of Gerath that stood in the village square.
Despite the hardships, the sight of Gewey’s wagon made the people smile. Gewey’s honest dealings and helpful nature made him very popular in the village. He was always ready to help those in need and never shied away from hard work, even when he worked for free- which lately, happened very frequently. Though only seventeen years old, he stood six feet two inches tall and had the shoulders of a blacksmith. With raven black hair, flawless skin, and chiseled features, it was little wonder that the young girls of the village swooned as he passed. The older women were already talking about who would be a good match for him. Luckily, he hadn’t turned eighteen-the time of his coming of age-and he could avoid certain uncomfortable conversations with the Village Mothers.
Called the “Village Hens” by the men (though only when they couldn’t hear), the Village Mothers handled most of the day-to-day operations in Sharpstone. If there was a fire, they organized the reconstruction. If streets needed repair or the river docks rebuilding, the Village Mothers saw it done. The Village Council-headed by the mayor-controlled the finance and commerce, but without the Mothers, Sharpstone would come to a halt.
Gewey had been his own master since his father had died two years earlier of an illness that had swept through the village during an extremely harsh winter. His mother had passed when he was but three, from injuries she received falling from her horse. The memories he had of her were few, and colored by a child’s perception. He knew she was kind and beautiful. A painting of her hung above his fireplace. His father would look at it all night on the anniversary of her death and tell Gewey stories about her life and his love for her.
After his father’s death, the village council had approached Gewey about selling his farm and taking an apprenticeship with one of the local tradesmen. Gewey’s father had been the largest producer of hay in the area, and they had serious doubts as to whether a fifteen-year-old boy would be able to maintain a farm alone. The idea of losing such a resource was unthinkable, and though Gewey had not come of age, his father had left him all his property. Short of petitioning the King, there was nothing they could do to make Gewey give up the land.
Gewey refused every offer, saying his father wanted him to keep the farm going and had told him so before he died. The Council was preparing to make one more effort to change his mind when he showed up at the market square with enough hay to supply the whole village for half the year. He had not only bundled and loaded it himself, but also turned a nice profit at market. From then on, Gewey was thought of by all as the master of his own land; his coming of age was never mentioned again. He was treated as any other landowner and even consulted occasionally by the Council.
Gewey’s image of himself was somewhat different. He harvested hay as he had seen his father do a thousand times before. He bartered the way his father had taught him. He held onto the farm because his father would have wanted him to. Nevertheless, in his heart, he was not yet a man. He was merely a boy, still trying to make his father proud. His size and strength made others think him a man, but at night, when he was all alone, his mind was full of fear and doubt.
The village of Sharpstone was just south of the Sarlian Wastes, at the northern most part of the Kingdom of Megados. Just to the north was a crossroads that joined the Pithian Highway, leading south to the western gate of the capital, Helenia, then on to the southern ports and the Far Run Road which spanned the breadth of the entire continent. The land was flat and fertile, and the weather moderate and prone to early springs. The inhabitants, though not numerous, were kindly and welcomed strangers, so long as they did not cause trouble.
Though not a great producer of goods, the village thrived by being a stop-off point for commerce. They boasted some of the finest blacksmiths and liveries for a hundred miles, and provided a welcome respite for many a weary merchant or pilgrim. The inns were clean and comfortable, and frequented by traveling entertainers that often provided a lively nightlife. Overall, Sharpstone was a decent place. That is, until the dark times began.
It had been six years since what the villagers called the Long Freeze. The winter did not break, and the planting season came and went. Many villagers became ill and died. Gewey remembered the sadness in his father’s eyes each morning as they had stared out on the frozen fields during the first year. The thought of those long days of fruitless labor still made his belly ache with hunger. For an entire year, the ground stayed frozen. When spring finally came, the land was different. It seemed as if the life had been sucked right out of it. The crop was small,
