The squat candle spit and flickered at its own tallow, filling the room with tendrils of greasy smoke and painting the surface of the stone walls with broad strokes of orange and black. Beyond the walls, Yvaal could hear the muted screaming of the winter wind, huddled deeper into his furs, and counted down the seconds until he would commit to the deed.
Eyes wet, he watched the candle burn closer and closer to its finality. His fingers shook as they flexed around the handle of the bare blade he held next to his heart.
His leg throbbed, and he shook his head angrily and exhaled low curses in white-whisped breaths, showering his furs with water drops from the ice that still clung to his hair.
The candle faltered, and Yvaal held his breath.
From somewhere deep within the keep, a stray wind chased the stone halls and thick tapestries, danced through rooms of gathered, steel-clad men, and rose solemnly up through the winding stairs to the small, tower-trapped room lit by a single tallow.
The stray wind flung itself at the candle, and with a crack-hiss the flame died.
The trembling men closed his eyes in the darkness.
He slowed his breath, clenched his jaw, and flexed the muscles in his shoulder. The razored steel bit at the flesh above his racing heart. He blocked out the world around him, and sneered as he started to press deep.
All in one motion he felt the iron grip crush around his wrist at the same time he was lifted off the ground in a single sweeping drag. Yvaal eyes shot open, but in the dark all he could see was a flurry of shadows against the silhouette of the open chamber door.
With a rush of breath and stabbing pain through his whole chest, Yvaal felt himself slammed against the far wall of his chamber, a great weight crushing his hand against the rough stone until the dagger fell from his numb and trembling fingers.
He cried something incoherent, and the weigh dropped him free. He slid a full foot down the side of the wall before his feet touched stone, his left leg bursting with agony. He hissed through his teeth as he pushed himself upright, but before he could regain his stance, his vision exploded with motes of light and pain as a fist slammed against his jaw, sending the weakened man tumbling over the bare floor in the opposite direction of his dropped knife.
No more blows came. Yvaal shook and gasped for breath as he pressed his cheek against the cool stone. His tears came free now, and his whole frame shook with fear and rage. In the dark, he could hear whatever figure had attacked him move slowly through the chamber, growling curses in a low, deep voice.
There was a scraping sound in the corner of the room, and dancing yellow sparks burst with light in the thick black. In a few seconds, the tallow candle gasped to life, and threw a blanket of grimy light through the room.
Yvaal opened his eyes, looked up at his attacker, and gasped.
The man who stood over him towered head and shoulders over Yvaal. His face was stone-carved and grim behind a neat beard of gray and black. His white hair was cropped short, and his eyes and clenched jaw were framed by deep lines of pale flesh. His eyes flashed blue and silver in the candlelight.
His breastplate was decorated with a twisting vine centered with a single, stoic rose. Over his shoulders rested a cape of deepest red.
“L..Lord Commander…” Yvaal tried to still his quavering voice…but to no avail.
“Shut your mouth you mewling coward.” The words cut the air like tempered steel. Yvaal flinched, and scrambled to rise.
“Sir…I…” He faltered for words that did not come. The face of the Lord Commander grew even more dark and angry.
“I said silence!” Words like thunder rang in Yvaal ears. He stood straight despite the pain in his side and chest, and the fire in his leg. He forced himself to look the Lord Commander in the eyes. Forced himself to face the storm.
“Now…” The old man bent stiffly and lifted the dagger from the floor, holding it in the light. He wiped it clean with a steady, reverent hand.
“How dare you?” He lifted the ceremonial dagger in front of Yvaal face, so the trembling man could see the traced spiral lines that decorated the steel. “This is no butcher’s knife! This is no rough tool!” Flecks of spittle flew in Yvaal face, but he did not flinch.
“Explain yourself now, Squire!” The Lord Commander took a step back, and wordlessly gave permission for Yvaal to speak.
Yvaal took a deep breath, “I’m done, Sir.” He looked the old man in the eyes, but he felt his tears betray him, “The clerics…they’ve told me that I have no choices…the wound is too set.” He unconsciously reached down to rub his thigh, and fingers of pain lanced down through his toes.
“All I’ve ever known is the Order. All I’ve ever trained for is her service. Now…” His grief gave way to a fresh wave of anger, “Now I am to give it up?! They want me to live a half-life! They tell me I am doomed to be a cripple!” His breath was ragged and hot.
“Worthless…” He realized he had dropped his gaze to the floor in shame, and once more he lifted it to those stormy eyes before him.
The Lord Commander did not speak. He held Yvaal in his gaze for an eternity of silence. His frown did not soften.
“Show me.” The Lord Commander of the Blackrose Knights, Sir Davin of Redrise Mountain, the Harrower of the Silver Skeletons, and the Scourge of the Vampire Kingdom now knelt before Yvaal the Squire.
With a trembling hand, the Squire lifted the hem of his tunic and parted the wet, sticking bandages that wrapped yellow and stinking around his left calf.
The candlelight made the wound look even more vile and diseased. The wrinkles of oozing flesh were deeper when cast in the flickering light. The angry streaks of red that radiated from the jagged tear reached down to his toes, and extended up past his knee. There was no mistaking the wound itself; its shape was clear.
It was a bite.
The Lord Commander did not recoil of the stench of wasting flesh, or flinch at the sight of the ghastly injury. From his vantage, Yvaal noticed for the first time a jagged scar that ran through the Lord Commander’s hair at the crown of his head.
When the Commander stood, Yvaal straightened his back and gaze, letting the bandage fall back in front of the infected wound.
“So, you’ve decided your path is at an end?” Yvaal was taken aback by the gentle sound of the old man’s voice.
“The only path I’ve know…yes.” His answer seemed hollow even to his own ears. If the Lord Commander noticed, he gave no indication to the squire.
Ancient eyes held Yvaal in their stare once more for a prolonged silence. When he spoke, his voice had taken back a harder edge.
“Recite the oath, Squire.”
Yvaal spoke with hesitation, his voice firm for the first time since the Lord Commander had stormed into the room. This was all he knew, and all he wished to know in his life. For these words he had given everything, and had now been given nothing in return. They were the road that he walked, and the light that he followed.
“To the Spiral Path I pledge my eyes – to watch and guard against the abhorrent.
To the Spiral Path I pledge my arm – to wipe out the disease of undead wherever they may hide.
To the Spiral Path I pledge my heart – to serve without pride at the start of life and its end.
To the Spiral Path I pledge my mind – to live by the rule of law so to hold back chaos.
And to the Lady of Graves I pledge my path, from this day until its end brings me back to her.”
The Lord Commander let the words ring in the room for a full minute before he spoke, “You swore your life to the Lady…to the Path…and now you seek to escape that vow, do you?”
“No!” Yvaal gasped, and sputtered, “No…I…my path is at its end!”
“And you decided that! Not the Lady! Not the word!” The Knight bellowed again, and Yvaal understood how men could follow that voice even through the din of war and battle.
“I…” The Squire stumbled in word and voice, uncertainty clouding his eyes and face.
Sighing, the old man walked to the doorway. Framed as he was by the light, he resembled once of the statues that lined the great hall below.
“Follow me.”
He led the limping squire through the hallways of Scarab Keep, walking at a brisk pace that Yvaal painfully hastened to upkeep. Some of the other Knights and Squires paused in their study or practice to look at the pair, jumping to their feet as they realized who it was that stalked their midst. The Lord Commander did not pause as he walked, but nodded brusquely to each man as he moved with glacial purpose.
Through hall and hallway they walked, Yvaal silent and obedient. The old man led him through the great hall, and to the back of the keep, where the Commander’s tower rose from the body of the castle. They did not climb the tower, but paused at a heavy banded door that lay tucked beneath the main stair.
The Lord Commander stopped, and waited for Yvaal to catch up. The knight removed a thick key from his neck, and pressed it into the lock on the heavy door. Yvaal saw that the wood was polished, and the hinges well kept and oiled. The door sung silently inward, and the light from the hallway spilled down a steep stairwell.
“Below here lies the accords of the Order.” The Commander turned his gaze on the Squire. “The accounts written by Blackrose Knights as far back as we have record. These are their stories, their hopes, their sorrows, their failures, and their prayers.”
Yvaal’s eyes widened.
“These documents are ancient, and a treasure to the order…treat them thus.” The old man turned to walk away, but Yvaal’s sudden outburst stopped him.
“Sir! What…what am I to do down there?” He cast an uneasy glance and the steep stairs as his leg flared in agony.
The Lord Commander did not pause, but called over his shoulder as he walked, “You saw your path is done…find for me an account of any Blackrose Knight who ended his own path…if you can do that, I will return your blade, and you may dispatch yourself with my blessing. Good night.”
With that, the towering figure turned and corner.
Yvaal was alone.
The squire grimaced, but descended the stairs, one hand clutching a rail, and another an oil lantern from the sconce in the hallway above. The air stank of earth, but was clean of mould or mildew. At the bottom of the stairs, the hallway grew and expanded into a round chamber. The light of his lantern illuminated the walls full of rolled parchments and bound books. A table sat in the center of the far wall, piled high with sheaves of vellum and parchment, each stained with various hands in ink both black and faded with age.
Angry again at his situation, Yvaal cursed. When he looked down, he saw the spiral of Pharasma set into the floor in stones of black. He was in a sanctified room. Muttering a prayerful apology, he hung the lantern on an iron hook before walking slowly across the foor toward the papers.
There were thousands of sheets and scrolls, and Yvaal was unsure where he should even begin. There was no reason to their placement, no order to their storage. The Squire clenched his fist and spun in a painful circle, eyeing the shelves of unkempt records.
His eyes rested for a few seconds on a polished box of rosewood that lay beneath a pile of yellow papers. Unlike the other cases in the room, this one appeared to be free of dust, and reflected the lamplight with a clean gleam. Out of all the papers in the room, all the boxes and leather cases, this box seemed to stand out to the Squire. There was a certainty about the dark wood that drew not only his gaze, but his curiosity as well. He crossed the room, forgetting about the pain in his leg.
Carefully, the Squire pulled the box free and opened it. It was brimming with papers written in a strong, thick hand. The ink was faded and ancient, but still easily readable. Yvaal flipped through the papers briefly, catching snatches of words and phrases. At the bottom of the box was a leather book, small and cracked with age.
He lifted the book from the depths of the box and held it in front of his eyes. The spiral of Pharasma had been inked into the leather by the owner.
Yvaal sat down carefully and placed the bow on the table. Wiping the sweat from his clammy fingers, the young man opened the book, and with a curious grimace began to read. After a moment, his eyes widened, and he gasped in shock.
“It’s not possible!”
His hands shook as he read.
“The Journal of Gregor Fogg of Ravengro
The 5th of Sarenith, 4758
My task may just have begun, but I will see it through until I am no longer able. I have traced a path from Ravengro as straight as I could, and now the toils of life begin to drive me this way and that. I can only hope that this is the path the Gray Lady has prepared for me.
I dispatched a pair of undead on the road yesterday. I choose to take that as a sign that my path is straight. Today, I encountered a pair of Dwarves upon the road, acting with a curious combination of severity and foolishness. They came down the road chasing a half-naked girl who screamed and cried out for protection. She tried to ply me with her lies, but her venom was transparent. I seized her, and waited for the Dwarves to explain themselves.
Brothers they were, Hadhod and and Ulfgar Battlehorn. They carried the paperwork that marked them as bounty hunters for one “Andrian Constantine of Korvosa.” It is a name I have heard before, and one that carries no small matter of weight.
I returned the girl to the Dwarves, and together with them, and a Gnome who happened upon the same spot, we made camp for the night.
It was during that night that the figure appeared, with claim as the selfsame Andrian Constantine. The man was old, but still held the air of authority and lethality that made his story ring very true.
And so I find myself hired as a bodyguard to this child as she seeks to create for herself some new kingdom amidst the Riverlands. As foolish as this seems, my reflections seem to lend a severity to this task. I feel as though the decision was not one found at random. Perhaps this is the path I am meant to follow.
Tomorrow we will travel to Oleg’s Trading Post, to seek more information and aid this child in the formation of her “kingdom.” Perhaps mine can be the influence that tempers her foolishness into an ordered means of thinking. Perhaps her “kingdom” is a means for me to make amends for my failure in Ravengro.
My leg pains me more and more. My steps are still unsteady from time to time. I must continue to strengthen the sinews if I am to continue my journey.
As with all things, I end my night in offering to the Lady and the Path…to whom I pledge my heart and arm.”
His hand still shaking, Yvaal turned to the inside cover of the book. There, traced in the same heavy hand, was a rough sketch in the dark paper. A figure he had seen time and again, a sigil that had marked every great moment of his life so far, a figure to which he had sworn his life.
A single, stoic, black rose.
