One: Brother

PROLOGUE

It was dusk. A sea of crimson was painted across the vista of the darkening sky. A Blood Moon was approaching, and the wolves with it. They were howling, calling out for him, hungry for his soul. They wanted his blood. He ran. Swiftly, and harder than he had ever before in his life, he ran. But they were upon him, their paws beating hard against the dirt with each stride. He could feel them on his back. It was all he had. His strength waned, and despair clutched at his heart. His knees finally gave way underneath him, and he stumbled.

And then he was caught, not in the ravenous jaws of the wolves, but in the cold, unyielding grip of steel. The armored fist closed tighter around his neck, cruelly-sharpened fingertips digging deeper into his flesh. He fell to his knees, choking, gasping for air, clawing fruitlessly at the vice that was crushing his life. Fireworks danced inside his eyes; he felt as though his head might burst from the strain. Then there was the laughter. It was not joyous, but an evil, maniacal cackle. Mocking. Insane. It was maddening. The torture seemed to last for an age.

Then everything was black, and he was released from the grip at last. He collapsed in a ruined heap upon the stony ground, broken and naked in the dark. It was quiet and still as death, and he felt Death upon him. He could now see the face of his tormentor, as he had so many times before. The visage burned red hot into his mind, opening his wounds again. Once again the wolves began to howl.

He awoke in his boarding room, his eyes wide and staring, bloodshot like so many nights before. He wiped his brow, drenched in sweat, his mind reeling. How long? How long would these visions continue to haunt him?

It was going to break him. It was even interfering with his communion with his lord. He lowered his arm, drawing it back pitifully from the sword propped against his bedside table. One way or the other, the nightmares had to stop.

ONE:
Brother

A young man walked down the streets of Galewind, near the main gate of the eastern section of the city, the municipal district. To a simple observer, his blood-red cloak, unkempt hair and sullen demeanor would not have drawn much attention. To one who had lived in the city, it would have been apparent that this young man was a warrior and one in the service of the Church's military, also the city's police force. But it was not just anyone who happened to see this young man; it was a knight named Ragnas Rolandt.

Galewind had always been a worrisome place for the opponents of the Circle, or the Church, as they vainly attempted to dub themselves. Next to Tyrus, the mountain pass was the biggest power center for the organization in the West, which, considering its location, was most unfortunate. More fortress than metropolis, the city was wedged firmly into the only feasible and commercial route through the mountains. Any other way attempted through the craggy mountainside was generally considered to be an open invitation to be savaged by the great wolves.

So the benevolent masters of the rising Circle had seized control of the original stronghold of Horcrag and raised up the city of Galewind from the inside out. It was their city, so naturally it was their own force of arms that protected it. The government of the outside meant little inside the city walls. What was so unsettling was that the present citizens had no problem with leaving their security in the hands of those who would not hesitate to sacrifice them all if it was deemed beneficial to the progress of the Circle. But it was not the jurisdiction of the Church to declare open war on their opponents using only their suspicions as evidence. Order was prime, and it appeared to most that the citizens were in no danger for the time being, the Circle had the city in good hands and was doing no immediate ill.

Besides their retainers in the cities, the other half had their own imitation of knights in service to their Tyrant, these ‘fists.’ Ragnas was sure they seemed honorable enough to the uninitiated, but to a true knight of the Church, they were a threat and a mockery. They were little more than extremely well-trained dogs, vicious, but loyal. He had seen their symbol throughout his service, the clenched fist, bound in blackened steel, cruel and strong, and now he found himself looking at it again as he nearly tripped over himself. Knightly composure was beyond him at this point, of little import to a doomed man, no matter his stature.

So Ragnas stood there dumbly, surveying the boy through weary, red eyes. Though he was young, there was little else notable about his appearance. He was somber-looking and sober, clean-shaven, with dark hair and dark eyes, and his pace was brusque. Perhaps in other circumstances, the loyalties that this young man displayed with his garb and the device emblazoned upon his dirtied armour might have put Ragnas on his guard, but little else. There were other forces at work here, however - other factors that dug into Ragnas's mind, which, as of late, had been greatly disturbed by endless terrors in his sleep, making his waking life nearly unbearable. He had seen this man before. This young man had been in his nightmares, torturing him. His was the face of death. The wolf's head was on his red cloak, and suddenly the weight of all the restless, haunted dreams came crashing down on him like a torrent of pain and confusion. He could almost feel the vice-like grip ensnaring him once again.

It was him. This had to be a sign. This was no chance meeting; it had been ordained by the divine. That was it, the meaning behind all the restless nights. If not for the vision, he would still be deep in slumber, or back home, his business concluded. Ragnas Rolandt had been destined by the Invincible to find this young man and put an end to him. There was no doubt in Ragnas's mind that this was some servant of the Tyrant, destined to become more powerful and sow the seeds of corruption and destruction throughout the world of Men and bring about the fall of Ragnas's master. He knew. There was no doubt as to what must be done. All this ran through Ragnas' head as he watched Brother turn a corner and walk down a secluded alley, unsurprisingly, towards the Church's military complex. Ragnas steadied himself and followed.

Of course, this was no ordinary Fist. Indeed, he was noticeably young - too young to have merited a second glance for his current position by the city council. Most who lived in the city would have noticed that directly. He was a Redcrest, the younger. He and his sibling had been essentially marked for their current positions from their births, and each had given up their childhood a bit too soon. And naturally, being the younger, he dwelled both in the shadow of his brother and half-under his foot. Most of his associates did not even favor him with a proper name. He was, and would always be, the elder Redcrest’s Brother.

On the other hand, the rank of Fist did demand a certain degree of respect, along with the Redcrest lineage. And duty came with honor. Though rarely called on for his strength of arms, his superiors had other uses for the younger Redcrest. They at the church considered him to be a good medium for dealing with new recruits to the armed forces due to his youth and his more amiable personality.

Brother reached the warehouse in a rather bored mood. The usually bright jangling of his keys was a dull clanging in the thickness of the night air as the mist was beginning to settle upon the hills. He supposed he really should not have been up in the complex in the middle of the night, but he had to complete his business before the morning. The building itself was utilitarian in fashion, although, as many thought, there was little purpose in grandeur and decoration in what was essentially a storeroom and armory.

It was the armory part that had brought Brother here tonight. His recent skirmishes had left his bequeathed arms somewhat in a state of disrepair. Leave it to one of those jumpy little brats-in-training to drag him out here in the night by sullying his equipment. At least the new recruits had fighting spirit, but they needed to learn some restraint. But Brother found it best that he not show up the next morning with a notch in his blade and an enormous gash where his opponent's ax had hewn into his breastplate. That was what the Ward had told him, at any rate, and not for the first time, after watching the fighting earlier that night.

No one seemed to give much heed to the comings and goings of the Ward, but it seemed to Brother as if there had been some special interest taken in him by the man. He was, well, a little bit shadowy. Sis certainly thought so, and she was usually right about these things. Regardless, there was no use arguing against a little repair work. These weapons, after all, had been handed down to him from his brother, who was also rather uptight about the need to keep one's gear of war on the up and up. But Brother had to admit to see the wisdom in that. Indeed, there were enemies afoot at all times, and enforcers of the law and order in the city, such as Halknid and himself, could not afford to let themselves the luxury of letting their arms go to seed.

Brother walked through the warehouse, weaving his way through the mess of racks and tables by the soft orange light of his oil lantern. Shadows of blades and wooden spires danced upon the walls. He made his way to the back, where the armory was located. It was a place where he had spent quite a lot of time, as a child and even now, having grown to enjoy the sound of the hammer on the anvil, the grinding of steel. Most of the men-at-arms were not given liberty of the armory as he had. Torben, the master of arms, had been a good friend of Father’s, and had become something of a mentor to the boy the past few years. When he had asked for a set of keys of his own, Torben had complied.

Brother stepped into the room and placed his lantern on his work bench, turning up the wick slightly to let himself a little more light. His table didn't seem to have been disturbed since he left it that morning. Feeling quite content, he unfastened his cloak and laid it down beside his lamp, and he began to unstrap his breastplate. This was done, he was just walking over to the grinding wheel with sword in hand, when he heard a crash from behind him. It sounded as if someone had turned over one of the weapon racks.

Brother turned on his heel quickly to face the darkness, his eyes darting around wildly, searching for the source of the noise. That noise was soon followed by others, and there were heavy, deliberate footsteps in the silences that separated them. There was something heading his way, knocking obstacles out of its way to get to him. Brother waited tensely, gripping his blade in preparation for a fight. Slowly, a man appeared in the reach of the light from the oil lamp, and Brother felt fear grip him. The man looked only a few years older than Brother, his tousled brown hair hanging nearly down to his eyes, which gleamed madly in the lamp light. He carried the distinct impression of not having slept in days, his face long and lined. His mouth was set. There was a look of intense anger on his face, and a blade was in each of his hands. There was no doubt in Brother's mind that this man had his mind set on murder.

'Who the hell are you?' demanded Brother, and he pointed his sword towards the stranger. In response, the stranger made a flash of movement with his arm, and suddenly there was a shining blade in the air between them, reflecting the orange light back into Brother's eyes, careening straight towards his head.

One would have a difficult time trying to measure exactly how much time a young Fist spends perfecting his swordplay, honing his reflexes and the power in his sword-arm, but luckily for Brother, he had spent enough. There was a hollow clang when the two blades collided, and the lesser of them was knocked out of the air and landed with an unceremonious clatter upon the stone floor. Drawing his arm back for what he was certain to be the inevitable advance, Brother instead found himself facing the same image of the man in the edge of the light, his expression still that of determination and anger.

'Who are you?' Brother repeated.

But the stranger appeared not to have heard him at all, and he in turn demanded, 'Why are you tormenting me?' This struck Brother as both very ironic and also very bad; he was dealing with a madman.

'You do realize you are assaulting an officer of the peace?' said Brother. At this, the stranger threw back his cloak, revealing a brilliant suit of armour, glittering and white. Brother had seen armour like this before, and he felt almost sickened as he guessed what this paladin was going to say next.

With a stillness and composure that was almost eerie, the knight held forth his sword and stated, 'I, Ragnas Rolandt, hereby sentence you to death for conspiracy and acts of evil in the name of the Tyrant. I suggest that you do not resist.'

For all his fear at his current predicament, Brother managed to bolster himself as best he could, trying to muster up as much bravado as he had to overcome his doubt. If this truly was to be his end, then he would go down fighting like his father. Perhaps his last stand would at least be worthy of a mention among his peers and those to come. Maybe his sister would even sing a lament in his honor. The thought of her gave him strength and a resolve to show this pompous fool a trick or two before the end. In spite of himself, he snickered, a sort of inexplicable grin peeling across his face.

This expression seemed to spark something in this Ragnas Rolandt, however. A spasm passed across the knight's face, as if a surge of emotion was straining against the dam of his willpower and for a split second, it seeped out. He was quick to regain his dignity, but it failed him as he struggled with himself, and the pompousness of his previous challenge was dashed as his face turned red and he raised his sword, screaming, 'Peace, cad! I want what you have taken from me!' And with that he charged at Brother, his eyes full of fire.

The first blow came, and Brother was prepared for it, but the sheer force of the assault drove him back. He fought well, his brother's expertise lending its aid to him now. A thrust at his heart he deflected with his notched blade, but too late, and the knight's sword dove into his shoulder, sending a course of warmth down Brother's arm and filling his eyes with tears. Exclaiming in pain, he wrenched the blade free, and he returned the blow as best he could, but his steel caught the hardness of the knight's breastplate. Ragnas Rolandt did not seem satisfied at this, and he aimed a swashing blow at Brother as the young man withdrew from him, clenching his fist to his chest.

Brother sought the high ground, using his opportunity to leap upon the work table, then turned to face his enemy anew. Ragnas Rolandt advanced, and their duel continued. The sounds of swordplay erupted once more in the night, this time with Brother cleaving desperately to his slight advantage, and finally Ragnas thrusted again, leaving Brother with his chance. He channeled all the strength in his arms, deflecting his opponent's weapon to his left side, his own sword drawing a wide arc in the air around his head; its destination would be directly across his foe's neck.

But Ragnas Rolandt proved too quick. He bent to his right, and Brother's counter-strike went wide. The knight had performed a similar attack along with Brother, and now it connected, hacking into the wood of the table-legs, severing them.

Now it was Brother's turn to be caught off his guard. The table fell onto its damaged end, and Brother fell with it, the weight of the impact cracking the wood along the grain. He rolled to his side as soon as he fell, using the momentum to drive himself out of the way of the knight's follow-up. Ragnas thrusted his sword down, hard, with the swiftness and deadly intention of a viper, driving it into the wood where Brother had just been. For a split second the end of the blade became lodged in the wood, and Brother kicked his leg out before it could be withdrawn, the leather of his boot connecting with the blunt of the blade, knocking it harshly out of the paladin's hands and across the floor.

A second blow from Brother's boot smacked into Ragnas's shin, and he tripped, his knee cracking hard against the stone floor. He managed to catch himself at the last moment, landing on all fours. Brother used the distraction to roll away and get to his feet as well as he could. When Ragnas pushed himself back up and turned around, Brother was standing there, sword pointed at him, his arm still clenched in pain. The younger warrior, it seemed, had gained the upper hand.

Then, to the amazement of both warriors, a diminutive bead of brilliant orange light descended from above them, and they both stood staring as it fell between them.

It was ridiculous. This damnable fool should have been slaughtered easily by a paladin such as Ragnas Rolandt. The knight had displayed his martial prowess before, the divine powers at work here notwithstanding. But there the youngest Redcrest stood below, now with the only weapon in the light of the lamp and Rolandt at his mercy. Of course, neither of them had yet to suspect the presence of an interloper.

Arden Mernith was there, perched upside-down upon the ceiling like the venomous recluse he was, and he now had a great sense of irritation at the fact that he was being forced to get his hands dirty. Currently his index finger was pointed down towards the two combatants, and as he watched his little ball of arcane power fall between them, he could not help but smile - not a warm, jovial smile, but a perverse grin at the dumbfounded looks upon the faces of his pawns. When the bead of light erupted into a silent explosion of fiery death a half-second later, he cackled.

Unlike the inexperienced Fist, Ragnas Rolandt had seemed to know what the two of them had been looking at, or at least, he had expected what it was going to do. He ducked with preternatural speed, shielding himself from the blast. Brother, however, caught it full-on. Intense heat and a cloud of fire enveloped him, singeing his clothes and hair and searing his exposed flesh. The pain was extraordinary; no scream or groan of agony escaped his lips as the fire wafted around him. Teetering on the edge of consciousness, he let out a horrible, rasping sigh, and he dropped to his knees. As if the heavens themselves were pleased with the sick joke that had been perpetrated on him, Brother perceived laughter from high above him, a sharp, sarcastic cackle like the crack of a whip. That was the last thing he heard before he slumped to the floor, defeated.

The surprise and imminent danger of the explosion had brought Ragnas Rolandt somewhat back to his senses. There was something sinister here, and this was evident in more than just the obviousness of this ambush. This inane laughter, he had heard it before, though only in his mind. It was the same laughter that accompanied the torture he endured every night in his sleep. Ragnas arose from his crouch quickly, and, looking around, caught the soft glimmer of his dropped blade upon the ground. He sought it immediately and had grasped it in his hand when he heard once again that horrible cackle emanating from overhead. Turning around he saw a silhouette of a man drop from the ceiling and land in a crouch. The glare of the lamp-light in his eyes and the utter silence with which the figure had landed made it a truly surreal image.

Ragnas raised his sword in defense, but the shadowy figure made an exotic gesture, there was a murmur, and something shot out of its hand, something that expanded in size as it flew towards the paladin. There was no escaping it; Ragnas soon found himself enveloped in a thick, viscous mess of strands, like a spider's web. The strands clung to every part of him and stuck him in his place to the floor.

The figure began to rise, a twitching sprawl of a man, a spider in man's shape that moved in an eerie, determined silence. It took a step forward, revealing its face to the light, and it met the illumination with no pleasure. Shirking the light, it closed its eyes against it for a moment and hesitated in its gait. Then it opened its eyes, and they were great black things and filled with malice. The sorcerer’s dark, lank hair cascaded down from the crown of his head, enveloping his ears beneath the waves and dancing across the back of his neck and intruding into his eyes. His vestments were made heavy and all in black, and they flowed magnificently around him as he began to approach his prey once more.

Arden Mernith slowly regained his upright posture as well as his dignified manner as he walked toward the entangled Rolandt. The confusion on the knight's face was brilliant. He looked utterly miserable and bewildered as he struggled fruitlessly against the web. 'I know you, knave,' he said, ceasing his struggling. 'It is you. It has been you all this time, hasn't it?'

Mernith stopped short, and he crossed his arms, deciding to allow his tool the truth before his untimely end. 'Yes, it seems I am the mastermind of this beautiful plan which you have so consummately soiled with your incompetence. You could not even exterminate one juvenile Fist?' he said depreciatively. 'You are nothing but a useless cur. You had so much potential for my purpose, so much prospective influence in my work that will now never come to be. To think that I had thought to use you against this one's brother as well! You would have been torn to pieces by that bastard,' he spat and vehemently threw his arms to his side.

As if he had not quite heard what he was being told, Rolandt demanded, 'Why? Why have you been haunting my dreams? What are you? What is this?'

'Please,' started Mernith irritably. 'Ghosts haunt, my friend, and as you can plainly see I am still very much among the living, which, I regret to say, is dissimilar to how you are about to be. This...' he waved one gloved hand around him, 'was supposed to be flawless. You could have just walked away soon enough, after you had completed your task; surely there would have been no evidence that would lead others to suspect you of this crime. You could have been freed of the visions, the nightmares, and had your own life back if you had only been able to perform this service!'

Now Mernith sighed, and, holding his head up high, he spoke again, with a slow, contemptuous tone. 'But apparently it is beyond you, and I'm afraid there will now have to be two murders here tonight. The trouble of finding a new pawn to replace you,' he said, and he began to weave another pattern in the air with his fingers, 'has earned you my enmity.'

There was another incantation like the one before, an incomprehensible murmur, and Mernith raised his hand, his index finger extended directly at Rolandt's chest.

But a pained shout came from behind him. It seemed Brother was not quite finished, and he was maddened with rage at what he had been hearing. He had dragged himself forward unseen and was propped up on his wounded arm as best he could, directly behind Mernith. 'Die!' was his cry of desperation and anger as his sword fell for the last time, smiting Arden Mernith, hacking into his naked wrist. The blade, dulled though it was, sheared into the flesh, catching the soft cartilage of the wrist joint.

Mernith's hand came free of his arm, and a spray of crimson followed. An agonizing cry filled the warehouse as he screamed in pain and surprise. Wheeling about in his place, Mernith bent and seized Brother by his collar, lifting him up from the bloodstained granite with inhuman strength.

Staring into the young man's dying eyes, Arden Mernith let out a mockery of Brother's previous cry - 'You die!' - and Brother began to seize, convulsing as a stream of electricity coursed through his body, shocking him to death. His bloodshot eyes became empty as his spirit left him, and when it was over, Arden Mernith redoubled his grip on his enemy's collar and flung him aside like a doll, glad to be done with him.

But for his satisfaction at this, he was seething with rage and pain, and he again faced about and made a rather appraising look, the best he could muster in his agony, at the paladin, who, it seemed, had wisely taken advantage of the distraction to hack through a good deal of the clinging strands that bound him to the floor.

Rolandt apparently realized that something was awry, that he was being observed. He turned his eyes up toward Mernith and started; the expression on the sorcerer’s face seemed to disturb him. His breath was labored as Mernith's, from his effort toward destroying his prison. Upon meeting his foe's gaze, he drew himself back up into his sword stance and set his face into an expression of grim determination. There was a moment's pause in which they both simply stood and stared at each other, neither sure of the other's intentions.

Arden Mernith was then overcome with a fresh wave of excruciating wave of pain from his bleeding wrist. It drove him forward a half-step, and he nearly stumbled. He tucked his arm hard against his side and began to cradle it with his undamaged arm. His vestments were becoming slick and wet from his own blood.

The paladin seemed to grow more bold at this display. 'Come on!' he challenged Mernith.

His reply was a hateful, pained scream. Mernith ceased his grimace, and the two cast their gaze at each other once again. Frustrated, unable to focus, all but lost for his precious control, the sorcerer turned in place with a flourish of his robes. The light and shadow seemed to bend around and envelop him, taking him over, and then he was gone.

Ragnas Rolandt was left there alone, his eyes wide with shock and confusion. The lamplight began to fade.