Prologue

In the world of Iskitis
Lord Derekius watched the gates of a Dwarven citadel from his tent while his men furiously attempted to bring it down. Rams were battered against it while axes ate and torn through the thick wood. Meanwhile arrows flew from both sides, making the air dark and thick with the deadly rain. The citadel itself was a magnificant building, testimony to the architecture of the Dwarves. The gates they furiously trying to bring down were the only entrance and exit to the citadel. The precise width of the walls was uncertain, but Derekius concluded it was extremely thick from the catapult shots he fired. The keep of the citadel towered above the giant walls, allowing the baron to see the siege from his own keep. The citadel was in a strategic location and the center of the eastern Dwarven trading routes. To seize would be a mighty blow against the Dwarves. So three months ago, Derekius and his men attacked the Dwarven citadel. Neither army seemed willing to give in as the siege endured on and on. Though that would change today, Derekius thought as two squires desperately strapped his dark armor on him. The armor felt cold on his pale skin. The metal of his armor was relatively gray like the stormy clouds and his pauldrons had spikes, two inch long, erected out of it. The cuirass had a cross pattée imprinted on the front. When the squires finished their task, a priest came to Derekius and placing his hand on Derekius’ brow, he prayed for Tarin’s blessing upon the loyal crusader. After minutes of muttering prayers, Derekius placed his helmet, a dark great helm with spikes protruding from it, on, covering his emotionless face, clasped his sword, Girsk, on his belt, and walked towards the gate.

As he walked, his dark boots crushing the red dirt, the men that had lined the path quickly fell silent and knelt in respect for their lord: their lord who has brought them many victories and glories. Every step on the dirt path brought Derekius closer to the gate and silence in his wake. Even the Dwarven archers ceased their fire at the sight of him approaching and gape at their object of doom. The men at the gates dropped their axes and rams and evacuated the gate, not wishing to be caught in their lord’s path. Derekius stopped within five feet of the wall and drew Girsk, his long sword with a pale-white blade and metallic vines woven around the hilt. Some of the Dwarven archers caught on their senses and hastily fired at the lord, but to no avail. With one single word, Derekius stopped the arrows in their flight and launched them back towards their owners, killing them. Then he uttered, “Deminta hy yiusins!” A black ball of energy emerged from the guard of Girsk and flew through the blade and towards the gates. The wooden gates shattered and where stone and steel failed, magic succeeded. As the dust loomed in the air and began to settle, Derekius strode through the defeated gates and into the gatehouse.

The Dwarves had gathered around the gate inside the gatehouse, listening as blow after blow landed on their gates. The gatehouse was a fairly large room with balconies surrounding its inside walls as a defense. The walls itself was of polished atrine, the finest stone in all of the Dwarven mines. The door behind the Dwarves leads to the courtyard and the keep. All of the defenders knew the Dwarven god of death, Torhotar, to come for them. All they hoped is that will take a human soldier or two with them as they passed to the underworld. When the gates shattered before them, they had expected a storm of human warriors, charging towards them and screaming at the top of their lungs. What they didn’t expect was a lone figure in the dust, standing in the threshold as if taunting the Dwarves. The figure took one step forward and his appearance became clear. And as soon as the Dwarves saw their lone intruder clearly, cold terror gripped their hearts. They had remained stout as the human soldiers besieged the gate and few felt fear’s grip when the gates shattered. But now, the Dwarves felt as if they were wading the pool of fear. All of the defenders knew that none of them could ever hope to defeat him, one of the feared mutilians in the Emperor’s service. The mutilian stepped forward again and every step seemed to sound the doom of the Dwarves. He stopped ten feet into the gatehouse and waited. His steady breath blew away the fighting spirit of the Dwarven defenders. Silence reigned the gatehouse until a Dwarf, unable to withstand the tension, charged towards the mutilian, brandishing his axe.

Derekius swung his sword like a mace at the Dwarf, sending him left into a stone wall. The Dwarf slid down from the wall with a long gash across his chest while smearing blood over the wall. The Dwarven defenders watched in horror at the brutal demise of their comrade. Enraged, they swarmed towards Derekius with their swords, axes, and hammers shining in the light. But it would have taken more than the steel weapons of the Dwarves to vanquish the mutilian. The mutilian’s enchantments, made earlier in the battle, protected him from their blades while he slashed, stabbed, and beheaded the dwarves that came too close to his sword. Soon the echoes of cries and yells conquered the tense silence as bodies of the Dwarves piled. At last, Derekius thrust his bloodied sword into the last remaining Dwarf and withdrew it, allowing the pitiful Dwarf crumble before his feet. Ignoring the rush of his soldiers that have now arrived to take part in the looting, Derekius strode on into the citadel.

In the midst of all of this chaos, the baron of the Dwarven citadel, Baron Groffison, had not participated in the fighting. In fact, he was two hundred feet above from the massacre of his defenders, in the temple of the king of gods, Dohiror. The temple was located at the pinnacle of the keep surrounded by nothing but glass windows. In the center was a gold statue of Dohiror. His armor was made of atrine and his emerald eyes glowed in the light. Candles dotted before his feet and the blue smoke filled the air. Groffison was kneeling before the statue, muttering a long prayer, when a crash was heard as the temple gates were opened, followed by the soft thuds of the temple guards’ bodies hitting the floor. The Dwarven baron paid no heed to the noise even as the mutilian’s metal boots announced his steady approach. Derekius smiled gloatingly as he raised his sword in the air and with one swift stroke, beheaded the praying baron. Then, he pointed his left hand at the statue of Dohiror and yelled, “Deminta yuhisj Dohirior!” A large crack emerged from the head of the statue and descended towards its feet and in a crash, the statue shattered into thousands of gold and adrine pieces. Derekius knelt down towards the floor and scooped up some of the pieces of the statues. With a curt movement, a flick of his wrist, he threw the shards at the headless trunk of the baron and walked away from the temple.