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Book I
Hammerundhilt
Prologue
It was a cold winter's night. The cold was bitter, ignoring any feeling that a man might have. The winds howled outside with a vengeance, and did not sedate the cold. Shutters outside battered the glass windows. A pale winter's moonlight glared through the splits in the wooden roof that even then dripped with defrosted snow, warmed by the brick chimney. The man labored tiredly over his work. He hunched over the laboratory desk, the thin pen in his hand working steadily but surely. He would falter at times, would have to go back over it, the next time thicker, bigger. He set down the pen a second, drank a tankard of ale, picked it back up and went from were he'd just stopped. The baby cried out, wiggling it's little hands, squirming in the small cradle. The man flinched at this sound and barely stopped himself from turning the pen wrongly. He soothed the baby with a hand. When it quieted he began again, a little nervous, but steady nonetheless. He made a long circle with the pen, making sure he didn't pull it a little too far to the right. He made it especially bold. Going on he began swift, small strokes in the circle, up and down, down and up, making sure not to falter and keeping a security with how he did it. Clank. Clank. He stopped. Setting down the pen he glanced outside the window, flurried by the night's snow. He wiped the window with the bottom of his palm, squinting to the outside. There was nothing. He could have sworn he'd heard something. But he knew, as every grown man did that the night played tricks on ears, so he ignored it, going back to his work. He made a centimeters' long scratch with the pen, finishing off one of the last parts. He started again but this time on top of the scratch, making a small bar across it, nearly completing the emblem. Clank. Clank. Clank. He took up the scimitar by the chimney, and it twinkled in the moonlight. Kneeling down the man again squinted outside the window, his gaze level with the panel, searching for what had disturbed him a second time. Yet there was nothing. The sound had gone away, and there was nothing to be seen that had made it. He warily set the scimitar against the peg leg of the laboratory desk, picking up the pen and continuing down the emblem. He made a few sharp curves along the bottom of the scratch, coiling it quickly, skillfully. Almost done, he made a curl of lip. Almost... done!
"Done!"
Just as he set the down the pen the door flew open. A flood of snow fell in, as did the snowfall. He picked up the scimitar, poising it at the intruders who marched in. The intruders were coated in silvery armor, the golden image of a griffon spread valiantly across their breastplate. Their helms carried each a set of horns, the visors shut. Broadswords were brandished with a collective shink.
"No!" shouted the man. "What right do you have in here?"
A knight shuffled past him, while two others hovered over him, acknowledging his scimitar and their broadswords. The man tried to stop the leading one from discovering what lay on the desk, but was confined with a shove. The leading knight paused. He pushed up his visor, staring in dismay on the desk.
"By God. By God, what have you done?" he shouted backwards.
The man bent his lips into a mocking grin. "I have done Burganash's will," he hissed.
The knight strode forward to the man. "Do you realize what you have done? What scar you've placed upon this soul? You have scarred a child! Do you even care?"
"Care," the man spat on the knight's glossy boot. "Care? The world has no use for it!"
The knight grimaced angrily. "Sir, by all that is good and righteous left within me at this cruel sight, I place you under arrest. You will be taken to the court of the Sunseer immediately. "
"I'd rather join oblivion first!"
The man unleashed his scimitar, lodging it deep within one of the knight's chests. Before the other could react he pulled it out, striking him down as well, watching him stagger backwards with a blind fit into the snow. At this a line of other knights strode into the shack, wielding their broadswords in an expertise fashion. They shoved backwards the man, a knight striking him to the floor. Another booted his chin upwards and raised the broadsword high, preparing an execution.
"No!" the leading knight grabbed the other's hand, making him pull it away.
"What? But sir, he just killed - "
"I said no," repeated the knight. He stared down at the blood-hawking man.
"The Sunseer made it clear to me he wanted him alive. Do not kill him. We will take him to the court, and they will decide prison-life or death."
The knight wavered the sword, asking himself whether to trust so fully in the leader or not. With a second glance though, he grunted, sliding the broadsword back into the scabbard. He clobbered the man on the neck with his fist, knocking him out. Without another word the knight strode swiftly out the door.
"Go. Take this creature hand-over-hand. I'll be with you shortly."
They saluted him, irately picking up the man and composing themselves in a group. They left the shack as quickly as they entered. When the knight was sure he was alone, he slowly walked back to the desk. He put his hands to the table, sighing heavily, looking over the baby that had slept so soundly during the fight. He couldn't help but shed a tear of remorse for the child, staring unbelievably at what was seared into its cheek.
"You poor child. I will pray for you."
The knight knelt on one knee, unsheathing his broadsword, and placing the blade at the floor and the pommel against his forehead. He muttered silent prayers, and they sounded like hoarse whispers. The night went on. The intense cold clawed the shack, and the winds continued their long, dreadful howling...