The paladin’s face tightened but he bowed and unlatched the Deathknight’s chains, before turning stiffly on his heel and marching away. Aravos barely had time to bow to the monarch before Halvor was gone. The king grinned at his exasperated look and waved him away. He caught the throne room doors just before they boomed shut and slipped through into the evening air. Great plumes of smoke rose from the open fields beyond the walls as warriors and priests and peasants gathered the fallen, undead and human alike, to be burned. He wondered for a moment where his corpse would fall, in the ceremonial pyres of the fallen heroes or the acrid pits where dismembered ghouls still writhed in the flames. Halvor waited impatiently at the head of the stair leading down into the city proper.
“The king should have never issued you a pardon,” he said grimly. “By rights I should be throwing you from the ledge and burning your broken body.”
“Well, I guess we can’t always get what we want now can we?” grunted Aravos, feeling his ire begin to rise.
Halvor growled and turned away, hurrying down the steps and into the back alleys. The few people wandering the streets gave the Deathknight wary glances. Aravos ignored them, knowing full well that Halvor’s presence was the only thing keeping them from either running away or attacking him outright. The elves had died out decades ago, wiped from their forest kingdom by the waves of undead, lead by their terrible king. A handful of survivors had made it to the Stone Kingdom, most too weak or too young to fight in the savage battles. Aravos had been a child himself, his first memory that of the Church of Light and the mighty paladins that championed its cause. He could still remember they day he joined the order, performing the miracle that marked him as a servant of the light.
“I was a paladin here for years Halvor,” he said wearily. “I know my way around the city as well as you do. Just tell me where to go.”
“The king may trust you, but I don’t,” growled the paladin. “I’m going to make sure that you don’t leave the Church’s sight. You will not leave your quarters without an escort, do you understand me?”
The Deathknight nodded. “Fine. How long until our first assignment?”
“If I have my way, you will never leave your quarters again,” Halvor snapped. “Don’t get used to this Deathknight. I may not be able to put you back in your prison cell, but I swear to you that you will never know freedom again.”
“The realm is falling to the undead,” Aravos said as Halvor stopped by a small stone cottage near the wall. “Not even the paladins can stop it.” He stepped around in front of the paladin, blocking the door. “I can help you Halvor. I know their secrets….”
The big man grabbed him and slammed him against the side of the building with enough force to bring dust down from the thatch eaves. “I don’t need your help!”
Aravos’ face tightened as he struggled to control his temper. Mist rose from his shoulders as tiny lines of frost began to grow on Halvor’s plated hands. “You would defy the king? The leader of our order?”
“It’s not your order,” he snapped, releasing the elf and pointing to the door. “These are your chambers. If you need anything, you can beg your guards for help.”
“Will I at least be able to get food from the market?” grumbled the Deathknight, more to himself than to the retreating paladin. “I guess I could always leave and force them to follow me. I’m sure that will go over well.”
He opened the door and stepped into the sparsely furnished house. Two stuffed armchairs waited around a cold hearth near a simple table and chair. There was a ladder leading up into a small bedroom loft. A large chest had been left in the middle of the floor, undoubtedly the gear they had taken from Aravos at his arrest. The Deathnight knelt beside the box, gingerly lifting the lid to look inside. Everything was as he remembered, polished black armor adorned with the skull sigil of the damned king. He had once carried a mighty hammer, like many paladins, but it had been lost in the last battle he fought for the light. Now, he owned a heavy runeblade, the signature weapon of the powerful Deathknights. The silvery runes on the sword and armor glowed, reacting to the runic tattoos etched into his skin. There was a knock on the door and he closed the lid.
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