Prologue

The fallen company

A slight drizzle of rain fell upon the battlefield crying the tears that Ezra could not bring herself to shed. The burnt grass of the Drínath still smoked and a great number of corpses –mostly Ezra's men- lay riddled across the hills like the remnants of some fell massacre. They were still things, silent, yet the echos of their screams still rang in her ears as she stood there quietly, the stench of their blood still caught in her nose no matter how thoroughly the wet rain washed it away. Ezra quickly gave a prayer and swore to never forget these men. After all, as their commander, this was all her fault.

"Adrian, we must go," she said tensely, looking down at her compatriot. He had matted gray hair, and a bushy black beard. Like Ezra, his dark tan arms were marked with branching tattoos, a mark of his religion. The man sat there clutching the remains of his youngest son Saul. He nudged the boy gently, as if trying to coax him from some long slumber, but Ezra knew it was useless. The boy's chest lay punctured with five Milosi spears and coagulated blood plastered his slit throat. The Godless men were not known for showing mercy, even to a fifteen year old boy.

"Adrian," she repeated, but as he met her eyes her words faltered. The man's face was blank with despair, his eyes almost pleading. The death of his son had tamed this once ferocious warrior. It was at that moment that the bitter realization dawned upon her: she had not only lost the battle, her only survivor was dead, if not physically then spiritually.

Ezra screamed at the top of her lungs. She screamed at the raining sky, at God, why had he spared her? She screamed until her lungs were torn and breath had left her. It was a scream equally full of lament as it was of rage, a cry unbecoming of the commander of the fifth division, but she did not care anymore, her life was forfeit. For a commander to survive their whole company was not only the greatest dishonor in war it was also a capital crime punishable by death.

Knowing no alternative, she limped over to the corpse of her fallen adversary. He was Soren Arian, the commander of the Godless men. He had jet black hair and polished armor, fitting enough for any great king. And kingly he looked with a handsome face untouched by any sword or spear. There was the ever so subtle impression of a smirk etched upon his cold dead lips that betrayed amusement. Even in death he laughed at her, just as he had done so often on the battlefield not two hours past. Ezra carefully placed her boot on the dead man's face and pushed down until his head was buried in the wet mud.

"Soren Arian, God as my witness, you will pay for what you have done here today," she said venomously. Then she turned to Adrian her eyes twinkling with malice.

"Get up Adrian, this battle is not over yet. We have one last task," she said kneeling by Adrian and his broken son. She placed a gauntleted hand over the boy's empty eyes and closed them gently. "Soren Arian may be dead Adrian, but he does have two children," she pointed her finger southwards, towards the sea. "For the love you bear your fallen son, and for the hate I bear this man, we shall see to it that Soren Arian's Godless children breathe their last breath!"

Ezra knew immediately that Adrian had gleaned her meaning, for as he looked over the horizon towards the land of the faithless, his watery eyes were no longer hopeless - they were thick with revenge.