Teleporting is an arduous process, when done through scrolls. It is a complete dissolution of the mind and body, which are turned into mana and hurled to their destination, then reconstituted. Again, an arduous process. It was quite different from a portal, which required but a step, and teleporting always left him disoriented.

  That disorientation could be used by both his enemies, and, in this case, his comrades. His arrival in Fangbreak quickly became a demonstration of this, as he and his squire were swarmed by other knights and carried away from the arrival platform, and into the fortress’s medical pavilion, where the healers did their work. There, they were separated, carried off in different directions based on the seeming severity of their injuries, healed though they might be.

  He himself was carried into the pavilion's innermost sanctum, where life mana flowed freely, and the healers could best make use of it. There, a team of healers stripped him out of his armor and looked him over, searching for flaws in his healing, and for untended wounds. They ignored his protests and declarations of wholeness, searching also for illnesses and, with the aid of a priest, demonic taint. Much to their chagrin, there were no wounds, untreated or improperly healed, for them to tend to, nor were there any illnesses, curses, or any trace of demonic taint. A waste of their ever-so-valuable time, one of them had called it.

  They released him promptly, though without his armor and less the glaive he’d taken as a trophy, for those would have to be seen to by the smiths. He’d not complain about having his armor repaired, but he expected that he’d need to have it adjusted again after the smiths were done with it. That would see him stuck in Fangbreak for at least a few more days, so he decided to head to the fortress’ mead hall, where he could have a drink and plan out a new training regimen for his squires. It was also where he’d be most likely to find Roderick, assuming he hadn’t found his way into someone’s bed in one of the barracks.

  The mead hall was lively at nearly all times, full of knights and squires taking a break from their training to socialize with each other and prepare for their next excursion. Servant golems, dainty things not meant for combat, them being the size of a common goblin, waltzed between tables, carrying trays of food, flagons of mead and beer, and used dishes to and from the kitchens. Knights gathered around a fight pit at the center of the edifice, where arguments could be resolved in classic northern fashion without breaking chairs and tables, cheering and booing for their preferred victor.

  He found a seat near a corner of the great hall, beneath the mounted head of a Chimera, and summoned his journal and writing equipment. It was not long before someone slammed two flagons onto the table and joined him, interrupting his planning. “Agnarsson! Need a drink?” the man greeted, offering a flagon of mead. This was Brus, a fellow knight, though not one that Harald had often worked with. He accepted the drink.

  “Heard you slew some demons?” asked Brus. That explained his presence at Harald’s table, the towering crimson-haired northman was a paladin, so the presence of demons was naturally his concern. He probably just wanted information.

  “I did, yes. A few seducers and an imp legion, led by a Baroness.” Was Harald’s response. “It was not a true invasion, just a slave taking expedition.”

  “Good. But it is disappointing, I’m getting tired of killing undead day in and day out, if they’d just let me hunt down whatever necromancer is raising them all...” Brus said wistfully. Leaving what the necromancer’s fate would be unspoken. They all knew the fate that awaited necromancers, at least those who used captured souls in the creation of their undead, it was neither a swift, nor painless, end.

  Another joined the table, a wood-elf knight trainer who Harald and his squires had accompanied on some training excursions for the recruits. Ilora was her name, If Harald's memory served him, and she was quite the firebrand, in and out of the battlefield. Notably, she’d been unafraid to tackle opponents larger than her whilst unequipped and unprepared, which had served their encounters well. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, you’re talking about the Thilhaas necromancer, right?”

  “Aye, right bastard, that one is, fighting his undead was fun at first, but slaughtering his horde is getting right proper boring now.” Said Brus. “I heard they’ll be sending some of the recruits out to train against them, I assume that’ll be your lot?”

  “Yes, I don’t assume you’ll be willing to watch over them again, Harald? They’ll need someone to keep an-” her words were interrupted by yet another new arrival. Well, a pair of them. Roderick an Orc lass that Harald didn’t recognize, though she wore the squire’s insignia on her clothes.

  “Sir! It’s good to see you survived, meet Anna, short for Annakellgr-” “Just Anna, please, you’re butchering the name, hon.” “Right, just Anna.” Introduced Roderick. Seeing that Harald’s flagon had remained untouched, he stole it away for himself as soon as he’d settled in.

  “You’re not allowed to drink, Roderick.” Said Harald, remembering what had occurred when last his squire had gotten drunk. There was a reason he was forbidden from drinking in Fangbreak, though Harald would allow him to break that rule in moderation when outside the fortress. His squire ignored him, likely thinking that since a single drink wasn’t going to get him drunk, Harald would do nothing. He was wrong. A flick of Harald’s wrist and the mead rapidly turned into steam, leaving behind an empty flagon.

  “Oh, come on, sir, it’s just one drink.” Roderick said disappointedly. “It's not like I’ll turn into that with a single drink.” The look on his face was pitiful, so much so that the entire table burst into laughter. Not least of all because everyone there had been around for Roderick’s last bout of drunkenness, and the escapades that followed.

  “Tell ye what, lad, I'll get you some of that wine the Gildarians like so much, weak as piss, that. No way you’ll turn into that if all you’ve got to fuel it is some Gildarian slop.” Brus said once he’d managed to stop laughing. Roderick’s protests were drowned out by a second wave of laughter.

  Once they’d calmed down, he turned to the wood elf. “Ilora, I’m afraid I cannot help with the training expedition this time, as I’m currently less a suit of armor.” Said Harald. “Turns out a hellfire bolt to the chest is not conducive to maintaining armor integrity.”

  “Ah, so that’s what the big hole in your shirt is, I thought you were just showing off your muscles, sir.” Said Roderick. “Anyways, sir, would you happen to know Olga’s whereabouts?”

  “Roderick, she’s likely off with her betrothed, and you should focus more on the woman besides you than on the one afar from you. Figuratively, and literally.” Roderick might have tried to hide it, but most people who’d worked with him for long knew quite well about his fascination with the half-giantess. Not that he showed it whenever she was present. Fortunately for Roderick, his orcish fling didn’t seem very attached to him; another might have taken offense at not being the center of his attention.

  The Order had no qualms about interpersonal relationships, as their leaders were of the mind that such things were only natural and bound to happen. Their line of work often saw knights sent on long expeditions to cull monsters throughout the continent, and that meant that they’d be stuck with their fellows for extended periods of time, and they’d be fighting for their lives together. There was no greater builder of bonds than such situations, and the order recognized this, and accepted it. It was better to have knights forming relationships, growing attached, and even falling for each other, than to have them burning out under the stress of their line of work.

  Besides, they weren’t monks or divine dedicants. Nobody was going to demand abstinence from them.

  But that was neither here nor there. The conversation at the table had calmed after a while, with the others talking shop about their trade while Harald continued his writing. That was until something drew his attention. It was Brus, talking about the order’s legions. One would be arriving soon. “-the second legion will be joining us next week to cycle out forces and resupply.” Brus had said.

  The Order’s legions were groups of hundreds of knights, travelling the land on airships, wyverns, drakes, etcetera, with the express purpose of putting down monster infestations, dungeon breaks, and other anomalous phenomenon that most kingdoms couldn’t deal with on their own. Only three such legions existed. Any knight could volunteer to serve in one, though they’d only be allowed to serve a seven-year tour before they’d have to cycle out, for their own health. Harald had long been resolved to join the second legion, once it arrived.

  It would bring him glory and a much-needed change of pace.

  But first, he needed to get back to his room, and to his well-deserved rest.

  _________________________________________

  He awoke early next morning to the sound of marching boots and a well-known cadence, a marching song that had been a classic of the recruits for generations. There wasn’t a single knight in the region who didn’t know the song. It had once served as the backdrop to all of their marches from the fortress as recruits, and now it served as the backdrop to his morning preparations.

  He grabbed his dagger from his bedside table and stood, he’d begin the morning with a shave, as he’d forget if he put it off any longer. It was a brief walk to his mirror, and he stared into the mirror’s silver. Green eyes stared back, an unkempt mane of blonde crowned his head, kept short so that it did not bother him when he wore his helm. He’d grown a beard at some point, which he also kept short, but it always bothered when he wore his helmet, so he began the process of shaving it off. His scar became more and more pronounced as the beard was cleared away.

  The sight of the scar always brought back bad memories, hateful ones. The smell of burning timber and ozone, blood and charred flesh, the feeling of ash and rubble beneath his boots, blood dripping down his chest, and the sight and sound of roaring fire. He didn’t much remember what had happened that night, the night he gained his scar and lost it all, nor did he remember much of what had occurred before it, which he was told was a normal reaction to such an experience. But though he lacked the full memories, the scar still made him feel, and he had a few theories as to what had happened.

  He stared at it as if it would vanish off his face if he stared hard enough, but all he felt was pain and loss. Here was a man who knew nothing of his past, of what he had been, just what he was now and of the blazing fury and hatred that had once motivated him, when he had wanted nothing else but to butcher every dragon, beast, and monster under the skies and stones of their world. He was told it was tragic.

  Here was a man who did not know his father, his mother, his siblings, his friends, cousins, aunts and uncles, he did not even know if he had ever had any. He did not remember. His memories sealed away, though he did not know if it was by magic or trauma.

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  But on the other hand, here was a man who had become a warrior, which he was told his people prized, who was brave and mighty. Here was a man who had slain beasts of all kinds, from shambling undead to a mighty raging dragon, though he had required aid for the last. Here was a man who had stood against a demonic fiend and won. A man who had undergone the most rigorous and extensive training on the continent, and thrived. Or so he had been told.

  As he had been told that his ancestors were proud, that his kin were mighty, that he was worthy. Sometimes he doubted that.

  He went through his routine like a golem as he pondered the path his life had taken, and the path he wished to take. Though he ultimately decided upon nothing, for he had yet to see the full breadth of his options. Instead, he put on a shirt and marched out into the fortress, and its courtyard, to join the other knights in their morning stretches and exercise. He’d likely join the recruits who’d stayed behind for their morning practice, if only because he knew that seeing their seniors join them might raise morale.

  First, they ran around the fortress walls while weighed down with ruck and weighed gear, six times, in fact. This was the minimum for all knight-recruits near graduation, though squires were expected to be able to do more. It was good training, particularly when one took into account the fact that for an extended journey, you’d likely have somewhere to store most of your burdens, like a cart. This, of course, meant that one would be able to travel greater distances. It also helped to practice physical enhancement, a valuable magic skill for every knight.

  Then, they ran out of the fortress and to the training camp beyond, where the recruits would practice climbing, athletics, and strength. By the end of their training, a recruit ought to be able to lift a small boulder, even as a specialist in magic, climb extended and median distances in full armor, and perform standard feats of athleticism, like vaulting obstacles and jumping extended distances, like onto the roofs of one-story houses.

  After that, they returned to the training yards within the fortress, where they would spar and practice their combat forms. His personal favorite form of practice was the ’pendulum’, which saw a trainee stand upon a small wooden pillar while a log or weighed sack swung from a rope at them. The purpose was to avoid the log, dodging it as it swung, and to strike it, without getting knocked off the pillar. It was excellent training for balance and coordination, if nothing else. Especially once more logs and pillars were added, though that was training reserved for squires and knights.

  He was in the middle of demonstrating these skills to the recruits when the fortress’ commander arrived to interrupt him, beckoning him over. He halted a trunk swinging his way with an arm and jumped off the pillar he had been on, making his way to the commander’s side. The armored man watching sternly as the recruits made way for Harald.

  The commander was, by the standards of the Venators, an old man, having lived to see one-hundred and seventy summers as a knight, the longevity being a benefit of his power. This was a prodigious age, because few in their line of work made it very long before a monster of some ilk came along and ended their career. Indeed, it took talent, skill, and no small amount of luck to reach that age and remain capable of serving. The commander’s age showed in his every waking moment, his short-cut black hair and beard already through with grey lines, and the beginnings of wrinkles becoming apparent.

  “Commander?” He asked, saluting his senior. The commander merely gestured that they walk. It appeared that this was not a conversation for the recruits to hear. They made their way through the training courtyards in silence, only speaking when they arrived atop the fortress’ walls.

  “We have an issue. It pertains to what you encountered.” The commander stated. He leaned into the ramparts and looked out into the wilds, staring at nothing that Harald could see. “The rift into our realm, our mages say, should be impossible, unless one of two things are happening. The first possibility, according to Thelan, is that someone opened the rift from our side, that being an issue for obvious reasons.”

  “The second possibility...” The commander sighed. “...is that the mana levels in the Duamar region are increasing. Significantly. This would allow them to open portals from their side, if the veil were already weakened.” Said the commander.

  “Commander, with all due respect for Thelan and his fellows, how can the mana levels in an entire territory increase?” Harald asked “I understand how they might increase in a confined locale with the introduction of high-magick materials, but an entire region? Much less an untamed one, the size of a large kingdom?”

  “I asked the same thing... Apparently, sufficiently powerful beings can disrupt the flow of mana by drawing it right from the leylines, which is what had been happening up until recently. Some new monster was feeding on our continent’s leylines from the northern isles, until it was killed by some so-called warrior of the light.”

  “...and now the magic is rushing back in.” Harald surmised, his eyes going wide in realization. The monster that had been draining the Leylines must have been extremely powerful, a calamity. “Who is this ‘warrior of the light’? He must be strong indeed to kill such a creature. Some champion of the churches, perhaps?”

  “A demigod son of the goddess of fertility, apparently, though that doesn’t matter for our purposes. The increase in mana is not just throughout the jarldom, but throughout the entire continent, though the Jarldom is more mana-starved than the rest. Thelan believes that we can expect to see magical phenomena in the region, manifestations, elementals, etcetera. It is for this reason, that we need someone to head out that way with a squad, to control the situation.”

  “You... are to be the leader of this squad.” The commander continued. He let his words hang in the air for a brief minute, perhaps distracted by the strong breeze from the north, carrying a fierce chill. “You will be provided with the resources to establish an outpost, or a fortress, if the legion decides to fork over some support. Your squad will also be provided with wyverns, for your knights, and squires. Courtesy of the Legion, of course, they had a larger brood than expected during this deployment.”

  The wind began to howl, a sound that carried a resonant thrumming, the fearful boom of large wings beating against the air. It was a sound they all knew well, and it explained the chill in the air. The commander pulled a spyglass from one of his armor’s pouches and looked to the north, to a small sliver figure on the horizon. Harald did the same.

  “Ah, it’s Vallasiron.” the commander said, somewhat relieved. “You’ve not met this one, but he and his sister, Vallasindra, have visited several times before, usually while you’re out on expedition.”

  Harald had no clue how the commander could differentiate the dragon from others, as far as he could see it was a common northern white dragon, as characterized by the pale scales, and the fur that adorned this one’s serpentine neck, wings, spine, and legs. It was a dragon like any other, to him indiscernible from other white dragons. He knew they were intelligent creatures, certainly, but the main way that most of them identified each other was the feeling of their minds, as all possessed limited telepathy, and their smell. Few indeed were the dragons that used adornments, and even they used accessories primarily so that mortals might recognize them, or for the purposes of their vanity.

  The two knights watched the dragon fly closer until it began to circle the fortress, looking for an empty courtyard to land in. At this distance, Harald could see the ridges in the massive creature’s scales, and the gap between its fangs, and the frigid chill that radiated off of it. Eventually, the dragon landed, and the two knights made their way to the courtyard where it had landed. It appeared to have business for the commander, as there were few other reasons for a dragon to visit them, well, except for the one that took a human as a lover. It was a good thing that dragons could shapeshift, he supposed.

  They arrived at the massive creature’s side shortly, and it stared down at them. It was, as always, a magnificent sight. All dragons were, really, and it was more than just their sheer size and power, and beauty, it was a lot more than that. Every dragon was a towering monolith of muscle, covered in scales tougher than iron, and sometimes as beautiful as gems. And the variety, by the gods, the variety; there were so many forms of dragons that it was absurd.

  Dragons with metallic scales, dragons covered in feathers, dragons with serpentine necks and the typical draconic body, serpentine dragons lacking any legs or wings, or given many, there were even dragons actually made of gemstones. The sheer variety of the creatures had always astounded him, though it was a shame that so many were... less than friendly. The one before him was no less magnificent than any other dragon he had ever seen, and hopefully, a hell of a lot more friendly.

  He felt, so much as heard, the dragon speak, as the beast stared down at them. “Roran, and knight-I-have-yet-to-meet, I greet you. I have come to ask of the wider world’s tidings, as some of my sister’s dreams concern me.” Said the dragon.

  The commander caught Harald’s quizzical look and explained. “His sister is an oracle, though all dragons possess the gift, to an extent.” Then, he turned to the dragon and explained what he had told Harald about the increasing levels of mana.

  “Godspawn, here? A new age indeed, sister...” spoke the dragon, his voice an avalanche. He did not elaborate on what he meant, but seemed to move on, fixing his attention on the knights again. The dragon’s massive eyes narrowed as it stared at them, and it became engulfed in light, shrinking and morphing rapidly. In a brief moment, a new creature stood before them.

  It was scarcely sixty inches tall, barely to Harald’s abdomen in height, though it’d have seemed a lot taller to those without giant’s blood, who didn’t stand at ninety-four inches, as he did. The creature before him was covered in what, at first glance, looked like fur, much like that which adorned the dragon, but upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a type of feather, which was in line with its reptilian form. It stood on two digitigrade legs, balanced with a long tail, and it stared up at him past a short reptilian snout.

  He did not recognize the creature. As far as he could tell, it was just a feathered kobold, but he did not think any such creature existed. It cocked its head at him inquisitively, and he struggled to reconcile it with the dragon that had been standing before him mere seconds before. “What is it?” It asked in a voice that sounded like a mimicry of the dragon’s voice.

  “I’m just... confused by your current form, wise dragon.” Said Harald. The dragon had been, as all dragons were, an intimidating and daunting presence. This creature, with its blueish feathers and amber eyes, and its stature, was anything but intimidating. In fact, it was difficult for him to take it seriously at all.

  “Ah, I had forgotten to introduce you all to these creatures, my apologies.” Said Vallasiron. “My current form is that of a subspecies of kobold that dwells beyond the Vastrand mountains, where your kin have yet to explore. They have a civilization there, a republic, nothing like the tribes of their cousins. I’ve grown quite fond of the creatures, they learn quickly, and are quite friendly.”

  “Their tongue consists primarily of chirps and other avian sounds, so you’d not be able to call them what they call themselves, but I believe that the name ‘Vastrandian’ is apt, as they originated in that region.” Said the dragon. “I could talk about them all day, but first... introductions, I don’t believe I’ve met you.” He said as he circled Harald.

  “I am Harald Agnarsson, Knight of the Order, at your service, wise dragon.” Said Harald, giving the dragon a brief bow. The dragon scoffed, “You’re at no one’s service, youngling. I cannot fathom why you knights still say that. Anyways...” he sniffed, still circling around Harald. “...You smell like a holyman, but you’re no paladin, cleric, priest, templar, or any other variation of that ilk, how interesting. Do you have a blessing? Is that why I can smell divinity on you? Or perhaps some godsblood in your veins... or are you a dormant-?”

  “Vallasiron, would you kindly stop harassing my newest knight-captain? I know you’re curious, but us mortals don’t just go around smelling each other.” interrupted the commander, shaking his head like a disappointed parent.

  “Scales, I’d forgotten.” The dragon said, shaking his head embarrassedly and stepping back. “Apologies, Sir Agnarsson, I... I forget myself sometimes, especially when I’m hungry or curious, or both. And divine mana smells... very appetizing... and is very rarely found on mortals who are not aligned with a god, or blessed, making you a curiosity...” Dragons were thaumatophages, meaning that they could as much consume magic as they could normal foods, which, Harald supposed, could excuse the reactions from the dragon. Divine mana must be a heavenly delicacy for them. “Do you know why you have divine mana?” the dragon asked, staring up at him.

  “I have to say, this is not how I expected any dragon to act…” Harald chuckled. “And no, I cannot fathom why it is you smell divine mana on me. As far as I know, I’m as mortal as any other knight.” Said Harald. The dragon cocked its head and seemed to consider something, opening its mouth as if to give a response, but deciding otherwise. It shook its head and looked towards the Commander.

  “We need to speak, Commander.” Was all the dragon said.

  “Very well, follow me and we’ll head to my office.” Said the commander, turning on his heel. “Agnarsson, you’re dismissed, we’ll have a full briefing once the Legion gets here.”