"Do it foolish boy, we have no time!" The screaming voice echoed in the little temple- crypt, some thirty feet under the surface. "Grasp the sword! You are the only one of us who can!"

​

Alfos doubted those last words very much. His eyes were fixed on the sword that was infront of him, flying motionless, some ten inches over the marble pedestal that was ment to be it's stand. A white flame surrounded the sword, engulfing both the hilt and the sheethe. Though no heat immerged from the flame, Shakmir's, one of Alfos' fellow mercineries, mark on his burned hand begged to differ. This was a Holy Sword, one that only men in the Service of Light could wield. And it would accept no other as Master.

​

His chain-mail glove glittering from the flame, Alfos reached slowly for the sword but quickly pulled it back, hesitating. His expression was an obvious mirror of his sentiments. It was not the burning he was afraid. It was the failure itself and what it would mean. For the last two years he had settled in Cothan, a town of trade and mercinaries, where all kinds of scum could be found. There he lived selling his sword to carefully selected masters, mostly honest traders whose rights were oppressed. He turned his life into a combination of prayer and battle, trying to cleanse him self from the taint of the Goblin Cave. He only fought for those in honest need and his payment was restricted to the neccessaries for his survival. The rest were always used to buy food, which was donated to the temple of Karaen (Karean's priests never accepted money, but provisions and held their temple open at all times with food given freely inside. This way the donators were certain for their donations fate). After the first year, one by one, a series of strange powers revealed themselves to the young man, mostly through prayer and concentration. He recognised the signs, since his elder brother had developped them too, when Alfos was still a kid: Light was accepting him as it's Champion.

​

Still, he was not certain he was to take the sword. His mind was tightrope-walking over a pit and the worst part was that he could not see what was on the other side. His hand trembling and his lips whispering prayers, thanking for all and asking for forgiveness, Alfos slowly begun to reach for the Sacred Weapon again.

​

"Ye know, lad" he heard Daerglar's deep, voice from behind "I've seen that white fire before". Alfos turned and looked with questioning eyes at his Dwarf friend. "Sure I 'ave!" continued the dwarf with a serious expression, deep under his crow-black beard. "The' re burning in yer eyes, when ye fight lad."

​

Alfos looked at the dwarf with gratefull eyes and he remembered what his brother used to tell him when he was little. "When in doubt, little brother" he used to say when putting him to bed "or when in fear, just try to listen to your angels speaking to you. They will take the form of a friend, of an idea, or even a foe. But they will answer for sure, for they are always next to you"

​

With a determined look and the words "Light's will be done!" he reached for the sword.

​

Light covered the crypt, making all but Alfos to cover their eyes, when the white flame burst and roared into welcome as the young Paladin's hand touched the sword. Then the white flame danced in the air into tiny little pieces which started to unite, until they were one. Still dancing and roaring, the flames took the shape of a tall man, covered in white flaming clothes.

​

"I AM SIR ARTUR LIGHTFORGED, THE SUNBLADE, PRIEST OF ALLAGON, FATHER OF LIGHT." said the figure in a magestic voice, echoing through space and time. "WHO CLAIMS ME?"

​

"Alfos de Lerac" answered simply the boy.

​

"AND WHAT IS YOUR TITLE?" asked Sir Artur, somewhat annoyed.

​

"I have none. I am the last of my line. I am wanted in my country and I have no lands as mine. I have no title."

​

"SPEAK NOT FOOLISHNESS, SIR!" cried the Sword's spirit. "LIGHT IS NOT CONCERNED IN EARTHLY TITLES. YOU ARE A KNIGHT THROUGH THE RIGHT OF YOUR DEEDS, YOU CARRY A TITLE YOU HAVE EARNED WITH YOUR LIFE AND YOU SERVE LIGHT WITH YOUR SWORD AND YOUR SHIELD. DO YOU SEE?"

​

"I do." came the reply.

​

"DO YOU KNOW YOUR TITLE NOW?"

​

"I do."

​

"THEN I ASK AGAIN, WHAT IS YOUR TITLE?"

​

"I am Sir Alfos De Lerac, The Expatriate, Paladin of Light, if Light accepts me and Allagon permits" said Alfos and his heart was at peace for he knew that this was trully him. Sir Artur nodded in contempt.

​

"YOU MAY WIELD ME." he said and the flames vanished, bringing the room back to darkness.

​

Alfos turned to his companions, who looked at him with respect. For his face was stirm and determined but also calm and peacefull and inspired trust to those who looked at him as friend and fear to those who feared Light. The Paladin looked at them and bowed his head curtly to all.

​

"We must leave" he said in leaderly manner. "There is no time and they will soon reach us here". Daerglar, the Dwarf warrior,and Shakmir and Lyd, the Cothenian mercenaries, were the ones who had followed Alfos to the crypt, while the rest stood guard on the entrance. They nodded to the Paladins words and rushed back to the tunnel.

​

After some minutes of running and carefully avoiding the traps encountered on their way in, the four men found themselves on the surface, looking at the terrible landscape they had left behind.

​

Hell seemed to have broken loose in Cothen. The land was splintered, the trees had withered, towns and villages were distroyed, either by force or by fire. The sky was filled with burning clouds and a dragon with no skin or flesh kept flying around the country, bringing mayhem to the few survivors, while orange lightnings stroke the land. And ofcourse there were the undead. Skeletons, zombies, ghouls, wraiths...All of the undead species were marching through the country, leaving nothing alive in their path, either Man, Beast or Plant. And whoever fell by their hands, joined them only seconds later.

​

Noone knew what was responsible for this. Some said it was the end of times, some said it was a punishment from the Gods on the sinfull country of Cothen. But none of this group of men believed that. It was obvious to all who payed attention that this was an army. And it was marching to war, whilst recruiting more innocent souls. First of all, the have seen camps in the distance, which meant they were living beings guiding them, which was not surprising, and that they were organised. Then, the pattern of the army's path. The army had come from the North and was probably heading to the South East, to the rich lands of Taeron. Since Cothen relied to it's mercineries for protection and had no regular army and few barricaded towns, it was an easy job for an army of undead to pass through it. And thus happened all that has.

​

The six men now looking at the leftbehinds of this destructive force, were put together by mere chance. Four of them, Alfos, Daerglar, the half-orc Bartouk and the blondhaired elf, Alsamaar, were escorting a great caravan to the South. The tide of the army hit the caravan out of nowhere. Out of a seventy-four manned expedition, thirty five of whom were hired swords, five of them mages, and another dozen were veteran warriors, only those four men had the luck to escape with their lives. After having to fight with undead (some of whom being their friends, who were raised immediatly after their death) they escaped to whatever was left from the surrounding wilderness. Only after they managed to cross a river did the undead stop chasing them. It was then that they met the brothers Shakmir and Lyd with the Warrior Tenguy, mercenaries who had a similar luck as theirs. They joined forces in a desperate attempt to survive the nightmare. Alfos admired the fact how people who would normally attack eachother on sight (the dwarf and the half-orc for instance), were brought together under these circumstances.

​

After some days with the darkness still covering the land, Lyd and Shakmir revealed to the rest where they were going. Lyd, as a skillful rogue he was, had managed to overhear a conversation of a necromancer with a metal-clad figure, who had left the undead army's camp. They were discussing about the location of the sword and that they should move swiftly to reach it. Lyd didn't know why they wanted the sword, but if by any chance that sword was to make their life easier, then they should try to find it first. All the others agreed.

So here they were, standing at the exit of the crypt, four humans, a dwarf, an elf and a half-orc, cheering about the recovery of the sword. It was Bartouk's harsh voice that stopped the cheering.

​

"Looksh!" he said in the little Common he spoke, pointing with his massive hand. "Looksh there! They comme!" The others looked at were he pointed and their faces grew pale. In the distance, the familiar trembling waves of the earth that signified the coming of the Undead, could be seen and felt. Saying nothing more, the company gathered what little they had and started running in the opposite direction.

​

"Hopefully the cave will stall them" said Alsamar while running with a catlike grace. "They do not know we have taken it". The others nodded, praying the elf was right.

They run for hours, taking little brakes in between. Their backs were aching from the weight of their armours and weapons and their knees were sure to fail them in the next minutes, when they decided to stop. They knew that there was no reason to find shelter, for the undead would sense their blood anyway, but they did though it wise to find a place where they could stance a slight chance in a fight. They found some rocks that were big enough to at least cover their rear and fell asleep there, one standing guard.

​

For two days and two nights they followed this tractic, heading west, hoping that if they went too far away from the army's planned path to the south, they would not follow them. It was a fool's hope, but a hope nonetheless. At the end of the third night, they came.

​

The seven men have found shelter in a half-destroyed barn, somewhat hidden by a hill. It was during the third watch and Bartouk was standing guard, when a thumbing noise came from far to the west. The half-orc sniffed the air with his huge nostrils and his face was covered in distaint.

​

"Gush'ka" he told himself and silently woke up the others. Within a minute they were all standing armed and armoured.

​

"Me shay go up" said Bartouk, pointing to the hill and the others agreed. Apart from Alsamar, the greenskin was probably the most experienced warrior among them. Since there was no place to cover their backs and the barn would certainly burn within seconds, the top of the hill seemed like the best choice. Carrying all things with them, in case they had a chance to flee, the seven men climbed to the top of the hill as fast as they could. It was not an easy climb, for the hilll was steep, so they hoped that it would slow the undead down for a while, giving them time to fire all missile weapons they had. Standing back to back and forming a circle, the companions unseethed their swords and watched as the undead close in.

​

The first wave came easy on them. Some twenty skeletons, ghouls and zombies started their slow march towards them. Daerglar tried to slow them down using his crossbow but the dead tissues were not harmed by the arrows' pierce. Only moments later, they were upon them.

​

Alsamar's long spear, which he used as if it were a part of his body, kept most of the undead from his side at bay, slicing and piercing, pushing them back in distance. On the other side, Bartouk with Daerglar brought final rest to the corpses with their huge axes. Dwarf and Orc fought side by side, their skill only surpassed by their passion and rage. Tenguy, the huge human warrior had no problem handling his side. With a single swing of his gigantic sword, three of the undead fell. The Warrior laughed with rage in his black plate armour, it's forging rich in deamon faces and spikes. The two brothers, Lyd and Shakmir fought side by side, Shakmir trying to help his brother who could only use a dagger as a weapon and would normally stab in the back.

​

Alfos was standing next to the Half-Orc and the dwarf, noticing the two were trying to protect him. The Paladin smiled behind his steel helmet, thanking silently the two, but he did not accept it. It was his duty to be in the first line and he would do so gladly. His God's name, Allagon, echoed around the hill, and the Paladin fell on his undead enemies in a holly fury, the Sunblade shining in his hands like a golden star in earth.

​

The first wave was over but the warriors didn't have time to rest. More of the creatures were near them now, screaming while slashing and bitting, as their dead bodies craived for the red fluid of the living. Lyd fell and Shakmir, screaming with hatred to the creatures, fought for the body of his brother, so as to save it from the undeads appetite. The others rushed to his side and helped him push Lyd to the center of their circle.

​

It was at this moment when Alfos felt the Sunblade getting warmer. The warmth climbed from the hilt to his body, renewing his strength and closing most of his wounds in a feeling of serenity. Smiling in bliss, the Paladin raised the sword into the air, while screaming with pride and fury his family's ancient warcry: "Lux im Nocte!"*

​

Illumination covered the hill as the Sunblade shone in a holly yellow Light, turning night into day. The warmth of Midsummer Sun, covered the tired warriors, renewing their strength and making Lyd gasping for air in the ground, his deep wound turned into a nasty scratch.

​

All the undead withing the light's range fell, the bonds of dark magic that kept them moving, forever dispelled.

​

The warriors panted for some air, looking amazed, Alfos most of all. They looked at eachother and smiled but quickly turned again towards the remaining undead who stood around them. The undead did not move. Hoped filled the warriors. Could it be that they were afraid? Looking at eachother again, they wondered if they should seize the opportuinity and try to break throught the lines, using the Sunblade if they could.

​

Their question was soon answered, as the undead open their lines to let their skeleton archers move to the front.

​

The company of wounded warriors grew pale in the sight of the bare-bone creatures, appearing among the ranks of their enemies with long bows in their skinless arms. Out of reflex, they all took a few steps back, making their circle tighter. Raising shields and ducking in instict, the warriors waited for the unescapable attack. The Skeletons slowly raised their bows with blackfeathered arrows on the strings and took their aim.

​

For few frightfull moments, the only thing that could be heard was the anxious sighing of the bows' wood and the horid sounds of clattering bones.

​

"That is enough" said a deep, calm voice from somewhere behind the undead's lines. The skeletons, acting like one, lowered their bows, looking at their targets with their void eyes. A sigh of relief escaped the company's lips and they all looked for the man who has spoken.

​

With the undead opening way infront of him, a tall dark figure walked with confidence towards the warriors, his body covered in a pitch black plate armor. His head was uncovered, revealing a face of almost divine beauty and charisma,with eaglelike eyes and long blonde hair which were left fall freely on his deep red cloak, like a golden waterfall, mixing with blood. Yet, though his angles were like shaped from a master sculptur, his beauty was cold, untouchable, dangerous, like the beauty of the tiger, which you can only admire from distance if you love your life. He held a black helmet with read plumige on his right arm, while his left was resting in a blackhilted sword. He moved with a calmness that inspired only fear to those who could see him, like a man of such confidence that could change the Creation's rules. With a voice as cold as an iceberg yet as loving as snow, he spoke:

​

"Hail Warriors! I am Sir Michael Navarinov, The Noble, Champion of the Unnamed, Lord of Darkness. At your service. " he said and bowed deeply. The company looked at the man, suspicion nesting in their eyes like a cat near a well lit fire. Most of them simply nodded, Daerglar spit on the ground, while Bartouk simply snarled. Alfos kept staring at the man, his mind feeling the closest thing to hate his heart would permit. Sir Michael turned to him and smiled, the same way the devil smiles on the ones he wishes to lure. After some moments, the Expatriate Paladin replied as ettiquette had it.

​

"Hail Sir Navarinov. I am Sir Alfos de Lerac, the Expatriate, Paladin of Allagon, Father of Light" he replied while bowing curtly and continued "My friends and myself are tired, Sir Knight. We seek only to pass the land. I ask for you to let us pass in peace. For we are greatly outnumbered and there will be no honour granted to you through our deaths."

​

"I understand, Sir Knight. You fought valiantly indeed and well deserve a rest. I am afraid however" replied Sir Michael, smiling still "that my duty to my God forbits me to grant you your request".

​

"Is it then that your God enjoys murder and thinks nothing of honour?" asked Alfos with a cold voice. Sir Michael stared at him with eyes burning in controled fury.

​

"On the contrary" he said. "Neither my God nor me wish your deaths here, tonight. You do however carry something that I must offer to his Dark Magesty".

"It is no token what you crave" said Alfos "for you to offer it as gift".

​

"I will leave that to my Lord to decide, as a faithful servant should." said the Champion of Darkness. "I will not try and take the sword from you." he continue after a while. "It is yours to keep and since you do not wish to part with it, I must submit to that. I am, however, willing to let my troops here. They seem like they need a...rest, don't you agree?" An ironic smile covered the Paladin's of Evil face. "Rest assured they will not attack you. They will however fight for their existance, should you choose to attack them. It is only their right, is it not?"

​

"It is against the Code to leave one to starve."

​

"No, Paladin" came the reply from Sir Michael, with a cold voice that even a demon would envy. "It is against your code." Bursting into laughter that pierced through one's heart like icy daggers, the Antipaladin slowly marched towards the undead's lines."Enjoy your stay here!"

​

Alfos' face mirrored his efforts to sooth his anger. He looked at the dark knight, with eyes burning in fury, his heart aching from the evil this man beemed. He looked at the Sunblade and then at his comrades, who, apart from Daerglar who seemed to be already planning an attack to the undead, were looking desperate at the horde of enemies around them. It took him very little time to realise what was it he had to do. He turned to the holy Sword,whispered "Forgive me" and then turned to the Antipaladin, his voice echoing clear and stirm under the dark sky.

​

"Sir Michael Navarinov, Paladin of the Unnamed, I, Sir Alfos de Lerac, Paladin of Allagon, challenge you to a duel. The winner can claim my sword as prize." The Antipaladin stopped, his back still facing the company. A slyk smile covered his face as joy and bloodlust filled his soul.

​

"Excellent" he whispered to himself. With a theatrical move, he turned to face Alfos once more.

​

"I accept, Sir Knight" he replied. "And since you challenged, I hold the right to choose the rules." Alfos nodded silently, giving another smile of satisfaction to his enemy. "Noone will interfere." he said. "That is all." The young Paladin, nodded then spoke.

​

"I ask thee, though, to give your word. Whether I win or loose, none of my friends are to be harmed, by either you, or any of your minions. Is that acceptable?"

​

"Aye" replied the Knight "You have my word!"

​

"Then let us begin"

​

"That is plain stupid!" cried the huge Tenguy, with his deep voice, while pointing the blond haired man with his huge sword, wielding it as if it was a stick of wood. "Fight me, you fucking bastard! And I will crush your skull like pudding in a sec, you hear me? I'll stuck your fancy ways back into your throat, along with my blade! Noble my ass! You'll fight a boy ten times younger than you! Be a man and fight me, you fuck!"

​

"Shut yer mouth, retard!" shouted Daerglar. "This is the boy's fight. Thank 'im for he saved yer ass, even if not werth it!" The warrior moved towards the Dwarf but stopped as Alsamar's spear gently touched his exposed throat in a move like lightning.

​

"Stay" the elf said simply and Tenguy snarled but backed off.

​

The two Knights walked to the space between the company and the undead, fully prepared. Nodding to eachother, they bothed kneeled in prayer to their so-different Gods. When done, they stood and hailed eachother with their swords and readied themselves for combat.

​

Keeping the distance between them, the Champions moved in circles for a while, weighing their opponent. Alfos, even at this age, was as tall and big in size as his adversary. But the Dark Knight was better equiped, his plate armor being much more protective than Alfos' chain mail, which only had plate reinforcement on the shoulders, elbows and knees. It was fortunate however that Alfos used a shield, while Sir Michael held his badstard sword with both hands. Shouting a warcry to his god and with his eyes burning in hate in the shadowy slot of his redfeathered helmet, the Antipaladin charged at his adversary aiming at Alfos' silver bright helm. With a mighty clash, the sword was blocked by the steel kite shield of the Paladin.

​

And the duel begun.

​

The two Knights fought with all their strength, representing their Gods in this minature battle between Darkness and Light. Holy and Unholy fury claimed rule over the battlefield but none seemed to take the advantage for a long time. The Sunblade met the Hangman, Sir Michael's sword, again and again, golden flame clashing with purple shadow, the swords seemingly taking life of their own as they raced eachother in speed and force.

​

It was great and horrible for one to watch the battle. The Expatriate and the Noble were so different and yet so alike in the same time, like two sides of the same coin. Agression and hate were Sir michael's motives, protection and Love were the forces who guided Alfos, all coming from divine favour and Faith. But in the long run, experience was to make the difference.

​

Alfos' eyes were burning from sweat, his muscles aching in every move from the effort. He could barely feel his left arm from the continuous clashing of the Hangman on his shield, which was soon to become useless. The Paladin could feel blood wetting his barding under the mail, but he had no time to pray for his wounds. Even though it was obvious that he too was tired, Sir Michael's attacks were fast, hard and furious, leaving little time for clear thinking and battle prayer. Ignoring the few wounds that covered his body, the Antipaladin kept rushing onto his opponent, with a control anger that gave force to his attacks. The Dark Knight raised his weapon high, tricking Alfos into raising his shield, then with a quick move, lowered the hangman to the Paladin's thigh. Cutting the chain mail and slashing the young man's flesh, the Hangman forced Alfos to drop on his knees in pain. In a valiant move, Sir Michael stepped back and waited for his opponent to raise again.

​

Trying to relieve some of the effort from his injured leg, Alfos got up again, saluting his opponened, then reassumed his battle stance, limbing. He waited for his opponenents next attack, fighting constantly with the pain that overwhelmed his body. Sir Michael attacked again, this time aiming for the torso, trying skillfully to avoid the shield's block. Yet the blade was stopped. He tried again and again, yet everytime his swing was stopped by whether the Sunblade or the shield. Guessing right about his opponent's exhaustion, the Dark Knight faked a piercing blow, then turned the Hangman into a swing aiming for Alfos' hand.

​

Shining like a fading sun and signing in it's steel voice, the Sunblade flyed off Alfos' hand, only to lie some feet to his right.

​

A cry left the mouths of the young paladin's companions. They looked at their unnarmed champion with widened eyes and hardened fists. Bartouk left a snarl of anger towards the Dark Knight, as he slowly moved towards the fallen sword.

​

But the Paladin had a different opinion. Stunned at first, he now felt his body failing to obey his duty. And that was unnacceptable. Using his shield as both weapon and protection, he rushed towards Sir Michael screaming his fear off his mind. The Antipaladin, surprised by the fact the young man didn't forfeit, was forced to move backwards, away from the Sunblade. It did not take him long though to regain his control. He begun a counter attack, making Alfos abandoning all aggresive actions and forcing him to use desperatly his shield to save his life. he used this to his advantage and kicked the Paladin in the legs while making him rise his shield with his sword. Alfos fell near the Sunblade on his back, all air forcingly coming out of his lungs. He reached for the holly Sword but the tip of the Hangman in his torso made him stop.

​

The duel was over.

Riding with his undead battalion towards the east, Sir Michael looked smiling at the long pile of linnen cloth that was resting on his saddle, carefully hiding the Sunblade from all sight. Willingly or not his thought run back to the boy who has challenged him. They were the exact opposites in this world, yet both were driven and guided by the same principals in battle and in life. Prayer, honour, self sacrifice for the cause, were all ideas that ruled over the two Knights' codes. The Antipaladin knew that he could have finished off his enemy, if he had chosen to. They were sworn enemies, even without knowing eachother. But no honour or joy came at the thought of the boy's execution. The Paladin had proven his worth, both by engaging in the duel in the first place and by fighting well in it. The Dark Knight nodded to himself at his decision. He could face his Dark Magesty with no regret about his actions.