Prologue

Rain fell in a sporadic icy deluge. No true storm, it was nonetheless a persistent enough spattering of ice and water to make the battleground a wet, slushy mess of melting ice, frigid wind, and watered down puddles of mud and fresh blood steaming in the dawning light.

It was miserable conditions, even for the already miserable enterprise of war waging. But if the barbaric Haruke cared at all, they gave no sign. The warriors were far from the plains of their people, having journeyed east and north across the sweeping Johake grasslands and crossing the treacherous mountains of the Teeth that formed a barrier between their homeland and the southmost reaches of DarkFyre Dale. This they did with the fierce single-minded determination Haruke warriors were known for. A bit of sleet was nothing to them.

A Haruke raiding party had launched an incursion against the FrostFall warcamp just before dawn. As the sun crested over the craggy mountains at the camp's back, the battle was full underway. The barbarian raiding party was small but efficient, moving quickly and ruthlessly against their enemy, who heavily outnumbered them.

The Haruke made up for their numbers with ferocity, fighting with a tenacious intense spirit. There was no uniformity to their arms and armament; Haruke warriors wore the talismans and tokens of their individual tribes. Their weapons were largely of rough hammered cold iron. Well notched long swords, cruelly curved axes, hefty wooden cudgels with iron caps, menacing war hammers and blood stained spears were seen most often. Some warriors carried steel weapons they'd pillaged in past battles. A few warriors wore padded clothe armor or leather tunics, but most of Haruke tribesman fought bare chested, boldly daring their enemies to strike them down, if their blades could find them.

They came at the defenders, dark eyes wild and hair streaming out behind them, wet and writhing in the wind. Bones, beads, charms and tokens of their tribe were twined in their untamed locks. Soaked through by the rain, intricate war paint said to be the bones of their felled enemies ground down to powder ran in pale rivulet from their faces and chests.

The Dalemen held the advantage of terrain; their encampment was arranged on the elevated hills that rose at the eastern foot of the FrostFall mountains. The mountains formed the westmost borders of DarkFyre Dale land. FrostFall rose at their backs with its menacing, jagged points of white capped teeth piercing the sky. SkySpear towered across the Dale miles to the east, the tallest mountain in the region and the namesake for the chain of mountains all along the eastern border of DarkFyre land. The Teeth stood to the south, and DrakeSpine ranged to the north. The camp was positioned well, with the high grounds in the defenders favor and the sun rising at their backs. The Haruke cared not and charged the Dalemen, reckless and relentless.

The Dalemen met the barbarian's ferocity with discipline and steel. Where the Haruke were swift and wild the men of the Dale were steadfast and immoveable, enduring. Pikemen were set behind earthen bulwarks around the parameter of the camp, ready to fend off any Haruke that advanced beyond the joined battle just outside the camp's border.

Foot soldiers armed with sword and shield and clad in fine chainmail met the Haruke warriors, steel blades flashing in the weak dawning light. They held their ground as the barbarians pressed them hard, the opposing forces meeting in a savage clash of bodies and sweat and blood.

Knights of the Dale clad top to bottom in gleaming plate mail waded into the fray, shouting orders to the soldiers as they met the barbarians with steel in gauntleted hands. Their standards were emblazed on their surcoats and shields, the proud coat of arms of their respective noble houses. House Vahlar, with its red tipped spears crossed above a gray helm. House Argyle, of the great rearing black bear. House Dorn, displaying its proudly striking lion in gold. A multitude of other banners and surcoats proclaimed the knights joining the fray.

Rael was discernibly different from his Brother Knights. Though a Noble of the Realm and a Captain of the Knighthood of DarkFyre Dale, Rael carried no shield, and wore no surcoat with his family arms upon them. He did not wear a suit of full plate, instead favoring a hauberk of steel scale mail covering his torso and arms down to his forearms, his hands clad in leather gauntlets with steel plates covering the back of his hands and running up his wrists. He preferred the ease of visibility afforded by neglecting to wear a helm, and he left his cloak behind for the benefit of unencumbered movement.

Rael favored a tremendous greatsword that he swung in great cleaving arcs. The Captain's swordplay was surprisingly swift and precise for the size and heft of his blade. He circled, stabbed and slashed tirelessly as he stepped around and between his foes. Perhaps perceiving the worth of the young Knight, the Haruke warriors pressed in, eager to test their mettle against him.

Rael bared his teeth as he met the Haruke head on. His blood was rushing high and heavy in his veins, thick with a heady cocktail of adrenaline, a dash of battle lust, and a pinch of hatred. He saw the same euphoria reflected in his enemy's eyes. They understood it better than any of his own people ever could. The knowing expression on the tribesmen's faces frightened him. Angered him. Yet he could not deny that part of him embraced the drumming of war in his blood as well. Rael never felt quite so alive as he did when he stared death in the eye and cut it down with his blade.

A twist of his greatsword sent a Haruke's heavy axe spinning free from severed fingers. Rael lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into the big man before him and knocking him back enough to bring his blade whistling in an upward arc to flay the man's chest and throat wide open. The Knight turned, dropping his weight and bringing his greatsword flashing out as he spun, catching a second barbarian across the belly in a cut so vicious it near tore the man in half.

Before the corpse even met the earth Rael circled to his left as another Haruke lunged at him. A heavy necklace of wickedly curving predator's teeth hung around the Haruke's neck, trophies of his tribe, clink-clacking, clink-clacking. He swung a blood-stained war hammer with killing intent. The man's eyes were wide and his lips drawn, his feral grin mirroring Rael's own, the grin of one overjoyed to at last face a glorious death. Rael moved with the man, his body turning and spinning as the barbarian hammered at him relentlessly. The power behind each blow would have been enough to shatter Rael's bone, pulverize his muscle and crush his heart in his chest if any had been able to find him. But Rael moved with speed surprising for such a large man, and his blade shot up to parry when the Haruke threatened to close.

Finally, Rael took an opening as he hit a high parry, dropping his weight and sending his greatsword slashing in a horizontal cut across the tribesman's lead leg. His cut bit deeply into the inside of the man's leg just below the knee. As the barbarian let out a savage bellow and stumbled, Rael continued his spin, raising up to his full height. He whipped his heavy sword out in a backhanded cut as he came around, neatly severing the Haruke's head from his broad shoulders.

Similar death and carnage surrounded him on all sides as the armies engaged. Men slipped and slid as the grassy hills churned into a muddy mess by too many boots while sleet mixed with blood and rent flesh underfoot. Sharp screeches punctuated the screams of the dying as battle axes bit deep into shields and metal armor crunched under the weight of hammer and mace. Though more skirmish than a true full-fledged battle, the fighting was intense and savage.

Rael whirled among it all, a man utterly in his element. His blade and gauntleted hands ran red with blood, and he did not slow. Common soldier and Knight alike rallied behind the young Knight Captain, and soon the Haruke were routed. The barbarians were slain, down to the man. None surrendered, and none retreated.

The morning sun crept over the sprawling FrostFall Mountains at their back, obscured by the overcast. The sleet continued in a lackluster, insincere fashion, too weak to wash away the blood spattering the hillocks and slopes below.

Rael stood on a small rise above the field, breathing deeply as he willed his pulse to slow and the frenzy seething inside him to cool. Tendrils of steam rose from his overheated body. He rested his bloodied greatsword across one powerful shoulder and gripped the hilt until his fingers were nearly numb. His eyes, a strange, ethereal silver, stared out over the bloodied fields as he struggled to find calm. His gaze fell on his men, who glanced furtively at him from under their helms, their expressions a mix of awe, respect, nervousness, and fear. No man would speak it aloud, but no matter how many times they witnessed it, the Captains ferocity in battle was an unnerving sight even to his hardened and loyal soldiers.

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