An immaculate square stone table rested in the center of the temple structure. Mastercraft stained glass windows stretched from floor to ceiling on the east and west while a solid stone wall stood on the south and a broad mahogany door to the North. The ceiling was pure white and stood about three times the height of a man. The room itself was of moderate size and square like the table where only eight seats were placed. On the West side of the table sat a man of maybe fifty winters whose beard was white speckled with black striving deftly to hold on to youth. His hair was long and drawn into a pony tail behind his head, it too a battleground where streaks of grey assaulted the jet black of younger days. His face was gaunt, haggard, and worn, but his eyes, platinum, held a bright almost boyishness. His skin was as copper, though faded with age, and his physique was tough and sinewy. To his right, seated on the Southern section of the table, was a woman of perhaps thirty with long deep brown hair braided down to her mid-back. Her eyes were jade, and held a fire in them, a zest for life. Her skin was the lovely brown of the southern nomads. Her physique was lithe and strong, and she held an exotic and furious beauty. Both wore the same simple black robes with an embroidered eight-pointed star encircled over their hearts, the mark of the Adamant Order of Knights.

  Mareth stood quietly on the northern side of the table reserved only for those who had taken oaths to Knighthood and waited patiently for the Knight-Commander’s response. He often wondered at the startling differences in demeanor between the Knight-Commander and his brother. Where his brother’s emphatic soul made him often brash, the Knight-Commander was ever calm, collected, and reasonable. The King is stalling, what will his brother do as shadows spread?

  After a long silence the Knight-Commander spoke, “You say Theo has done nothing about this prophecy that you revealed to us both? But he has taken the Swordsman in?” Mareth merely nodded as the Knight-commander continued. “And what news of the North?”

  “The Giant makes his way there now to ensure it does not fall to the conspirators. Still their plans are, elusive. Yet we know of a handful of their leaders. The intel gathering has been slow, however. Time is my friend, I think, at times. To others she is a mistress cruel and fickle. What is now clear is that Rae’fnir is manifesting power and the True Giants are being roused for war. Something else remains there as well. I pray to the Author that the Giant alone will be enough to stem the tide.” Mareth chuckled to himself and then began to cough violently.

  “So why have you come, dear Mareth? What more have you for me to do? My Order is nigh spent. None of my Knights lays claim on a squire, and we two here are the only left at any disposal with the other two engaged.” The Knight-Commander’s tone was not harsh, but tired. Mareth never showed himself idly. No matter how much he played a foolish old man his wisdom and foresight were not to be despised.

  “Can I not simply come to meet with an old friend, Knight-Commander? I am running low at the moment as I tend to outlive those who bear that title…” Mareth’s voice trailed off and his eyes turned blank as he gazed to the western setting sun and how its light played through the stained glass.

  A stern smile crossed the Knight-Commander’s face as he recognized Mareth’s games and thought to humour him. It was never worth it to pry from the old sage when simple kindness would draw truth far easier.

  “Indeed, dear friend!” he said as he rose from his chair and rounded the table toward Mareth, “It is good to see you as well my oldest friend.” As he finished the words he reached down and embraced the haggard old Mareth to his broad chest, slightly lifting the older man off his feet. As the Knight-Commander released, Mareth’s demeanor immediately changed and he spoke plainly.

  “I have always wondered at you and your brother, two such opposites from the same line. I have come with a purpose. Another conspirator leader has been found, exarchs they call themselves. I will spare you my riddles today and simply tell you that you, or one of your Knights,” he nodded to the woman at the table and continued, “must travel to the Temple of Black Sands and confront Ahmose Khu.”

  The Knight-Commander stepped back and stroked his beard with his left hand as he began to speak, “The high priest of Noctarian is he not?”

  “He is, this will not be a simple task. Noctarian is one of the few so-called-gods who interferes heavily in the mortal realm. It is only Illuvian who keeps him in check. This will require special skills.”

  Understanding the old Sage’s fears, the Knight-Commander barely hesitated. “I will send my Second in command, she will move far quicker than I and she is well-suited to combatting sorcery of all kinds.” The woman rose as she was mentioned, turned, walked to the Southern wall, pressed a section of the wall revealing a hidden exit and disappeared below the temple structure. Mareth watched intently as she did so, marveling at her grace and her silence, but was interrupted by the Knight-Commander again. “So then, there must be more to this impending conspiracy if you fear that the gods are actively involved. Speak plainly, my friend, what is it we are facing truly?”

  Mareth paused and gazed off into space as if in a trance. His body stiffened and his entire mien drastically transformed. He seemed to exude darkness from every pore and was soon subsumed by the growing cloud of shadow. The Knight-Commander watched as the shadows shifted and stretched and everything seemed dimmed, even the setting sun appeared frightened to let its light show forth. As suddenly as it began the burst of shadow retreated and the normalcy of a beautiful dusk took reign in the room and Mareth stood again, just as before, but with astonishment on his face.

  “An assassin, on this very night, has assailed the High King in his own quarters. I must hurry back at once. Knight-Commander I bid you farewell. You have your task, the rest I cannot say, for I do not know. I apologize, I must go.” Mareth turned quickly to leave through the large doorway when the Knight-Commander’s questions burst forth, “Does the King live?! Have I failed my duty?! My Brother, does he live!?” Mareth shook his head and shrugged without turning around and continued towards the door. Just before he left he shouted back, “He lives, for now…” And with that Mareth was gone, and the Knight-Commander stood in shock as his Second returned from beneath the temple armed with her adamant scimitar and dressed to travel.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

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  It had been decades since the Woman had returned to her homeland. The disgrace of her failures weighed upon her heavily. Her tribe. She could not protect them. It was her duty, her whole essence, her identity, and she could not stop the onslaught. Her skills and favor with the previous two Knight-Commanders had earned her place within the order countless times over. But now, she would have the opportunity for that which she long sought. It had been Noctarian’s fanatics, though long before the time of Khu, who had kidnapped and sacrificed her tribe. Ahmose was a simple boy when the Cult of Darkness had started conducting raids on the wandering Buthani tribes. Any that approached too near the black sands of the deep desert were considered prey, and their lives forfeit, ready to be given over in sacrifice to the aspiring god of Death. But recollection would only slow her down. It had been almost two generations since the murder of her people, and finally, she would have vengeance.

  Ah, Ahmose Khu, High Priest of Darkness, and pretender to Death, you shall soon face the long-kindled wrath of a Hamia. The woman looked at the Knight-Commander with a weight of meaning behind her eyes, said nothing, and left the Temple headed south towards a reckoning.

  #

  The Knight-Commander was stunned. The news about his brother, the rising of Aspects to toil in the mortal realm, and the inferno in his Second's eyes. The world of peace was being shattered before him. He had hoped it would not be. Perhaps it had been shattered long ago though. Blindness is the deadliest danger of hope.

  The Knight-Commander moved as through liquid, dragging his feet and arms through what seemed a wretched mire as he strode toward the temple steps to head into the inner sanctum. The King is stricken. His thoughts drove him forward. My second knight heads for the Buthani Wastes, alone to face the aspect of a pretender god. His slow movements increased in momentum, breaking through waves of exhaustion. My third knight faces another Aspect in the north, more gods, more battles. Each step took him deeper into the caverns of the temple structure, its smooth, white walls glowing ethereal under the dance of burning braziers. And the youngest of my order now must hold a kingdom together in the absence of its King.

  As he continued down the dim-lit corridor into the bowels of the mountain, the sluggishness of his limbs melted away under the fire of a new purpose. "I cannot sit idly" he growled to the surrounding stone, the noise echoing through the corridor and into the opening of The Order Adamant's armoury.

  He entered a room that was a perfect circle. Spaced out evenly around the walls, torchlight burned its flickering dance against the darkness of the outskirts of the room. Yet in the very center was a beam of pure sunlight coming through a hole in the mountain that drove from these depths all the way to the broken peak. The floor was made of blue and white marble, and in it was inlaid a massive silver star, eight-points reaching out to brush the edges of the room. At each peak stood a statue with armour donned, and next to it an ornamental stand crafted of pure crystal, each of slightly different shape, to house the blades of Adamant. Straight across from the entrance, one hundred and fifty paces, he saw his own set of armour, and next to it, in a crystal version of the King's golden throne, the Adamantine Blade known as King's Guardian was sheathed in the seat.

  He covered the distance quickly, approaching his armour with the tentative but joyful meeting of old friends. He placed his hand upon the Highland Steel chestplate, the folded patterns of the metal blazing blue against the silvery grey of the majority. It has been long, my friend. Ghosted into the plate was the Eight-pointed star of the Order. It was a plain set of armour. Made for functionality, but beautiful in its simplicity. Elegant in purpose.

  He donned the armour in a matter of minutes, buckling and strapping in impossible ways to force it into its proper place. This was easier when I had a squire or two around. Still, we make do. After the methodic tussle with his armour he reached for the helmet.

  He took the helmet up in both hands, staring into the crevaces where his eyes would be, and breathed deeply. The helmet was Kriegan in style, an homage to that fallen warrior race. The chinguard jutted down past the jaw line, plunging low enough to protect the neck as well. Diamond grooves were cut for the eyes and dipped down all the way past the cheek. The crown of the helmet came to a savage point from which a mane of tall, horse hair dyed crimson stood vertical and wrapped down the back of the helmet in a mohawk fashion. He ran his hand over that mane, almost a caress, turned the helmet away from him and placed it on his head, the leather padding fitting snugly against his hair and beard.

  Despite the weight, he felt empowered. In this cradle of steel he had so little to fear from any mortal man. His defense was almost absolute. He flexed his hands and arms, sunk down on his haunches, and stood again, groaning under the weight, but felt that all was snug, as it should be. Hardly built for travel, but I may require it. It is time the people see that True Knights still walk our land.

  Finally, he reached for his sword, for King's Guardian, and was greeted by the blade with a wave of warmth and an emotion bordering on excitement. It was as if the blade were predicting what may come, a time of purpose, of use, of fulfilling the meaning of its existence. "Yes, my very old friend. It is time we adventure together again."

  Where will we go?

  “South, friend, and protect who we can along the way.”

  What about your shield?

  The Knight-Commander looked back at the large kite shield hanging next to where his armour once stood, and contemplated. It was designed in four sections, each bearing a crest. One that of the Lion of his House, the second the Eight-pointed Star, seal of the Order, and the other two were in the shape of crescent moons facing upward like silver smiles. The knight-commander reached for it, hesitating at the thought of the weight and pondered the long journey ahead. After a long time he finally shrugged, stepped forward and grabbed the shield, hefted it over his back onto a clasp attached to the shoulder piece, grunted at the added weight and turned to leave the sanctum.

  Convenience is the enemy of preparedness. I can handle the weight.