The Arkanist

The Firesword

The Firesword

 Fire danced with steel beneath the black night sky.

Jakn watched, blades clashing like thunder as the two men fought to the death. The air was cold and the winds bitter, but the roaring fire kept him warm. Ash fell from the dark sky, the ruined remnants of the gods that once ruled the world. The snow rushed grey, melting as the downy flakes hit the wrought-iron braziers, licking with red flame as they bordered the field of combat.

         The men fought in heavy plate armor with hissing mail hauberks beneath and dented cuirasses that screeched with each attack. As their greaves danced through the cold snow, their swords ripped through the night, furious as wild beasts. The one knight fought with a broadsword, the pommel iron and the blade steel, gleaming pale like the moon overhead. The other bore a flaming longsword, the steel hot with blistering fire and the hilt cool as ice. He was Jakn’s uncle, Lord Ekin Blackstar, the Firesword, as most called him.

         Crimson banners writhed in the harsh winds, bearing the black sigil of the Marauders, a traveling gang of exiled knights. Lord Ekin was their leader, once High Captain of the Royal Legions of Antur, brought low after the sacking of the capital and the treachery that followed. He had fled far, crossing the old woodlands and the grey mountains to find a group of exiled knights along the road and brought them up together to form the Marauders. Together they travel, looking to serve justice to runaway fugitives and capture high lords for ransom.

         This day, Lord Ekin Firesword battled Sir Ulfric Fharn, formerly of Edenn, south of the capital, a runaway knight who had confessed slaughtering a family for their gold after he had been stranded in the mountains after a battle. Justice hung in the balance as the two fought, the flaming sword of Ekin roaring through the night like a lion. Jakn had watched his uncle fight hundreds of times, and not once had he ever seen him loose. He fought well and he watched well, learning all he could, for someday, Ekin said that he would take up the mount of Lord of the Marauders.

         Jakn had come to Ekin early, when he was five years old, after his father had been murdered by a raid of bandits in the night. His mother had died giving birth to him, and for that, Ekin hated him. It was a cruel spite, filled with rage and anger, one that Jakn did not deserve the blame. Still, Jakn admired his uncle, oddly enough. He was still family. 

Jakn had escaped and when Ekin came looking to see the carnage, found him hiding in a burnt home, crying. From that day, Ekin had taken Jakn up as a son, for he had none of his own, and even though his hatred was fierce, could not abandon a babe of five alone in the Ever Winter.

Jakn lived amongst the exiles, learning from them and traveled across the whole of Alderon with them, sometimes even crossing into Centh if the weather permit. Presently, they stayed at their small encampment on the rim of the Mountains of Varrin, built into a cave and guarded by grim soldier firs, scaled in frost and ash. The Ever Winter had grown too fierce to travel, and Ekin would not risk travel. But he would never risk a good fight.

         A chant began to drum through the surrounding knights as they held banners and torches in hand, the winds clawing at both with icy talons. Jakn sat on a smooth jut of rock, as he always did, and pulled the collar of his blue cloak over his chin, the wool bristling against his skin while the dark furs over his shoulders caressed his cheek. His dark hair, black as night, danced in the wind like the wings of a raven and his eyes were even darker, black holes that fell into nothing. They flashed red as Ekin threw a blow at Sir Ulfric’s shoulder, but the knight met the slash firmly, his blade engulfed in flame.