GENRE: Fantasy (epic)
Publisher: July 17th 2018
Length: 436 Pages
Reslo returns to his family, but his quest is not over. Despite the comforts of home and the love of his wife and nephew, his blade thirsts. He promised the Templars he would return to them their champion’s lost relic-blade, and he will not fail in his duty, no matter the cost.
Gratas and Jerah arrive back in Nolterland. Their bodies are wounded and their souls ache from the months of fighting. When they find themselves in the idyllic town of Dunkhau, sleeping in comfortable beds every night, they both find that peace and comfort will shake their resolves more than any of war’s horrors.
Heiradra loves Dunkhau’s peace and quaintness, but she cannot allow herself to become idle, not as her kingdom is besieged. Plots take root in her mind, and she finds a new source for her magical spells: blood.
They try their best to fit into their new lives, but legends and myths have taken notice of their actions. The ancient, haunted citadel of Basarvigg is occupied once more and the heroes will find there is nowhere left in Nod for peace to be found.
The captain turned in his desk chair toward the door. The Rovichian swordsman thrust the gladius into the Esivion captain’s throat and held it there. Red, arterial blood squirted across the blade and splattered the swordsman’s black tabard. The captain tried to curse, but no air could pass his lips. He made one jerk, trying to pull the blade from his throat, and died.
The swordsman behind the Rovichian descended on the woman stretched out on the captain’s bed. She had only begun to stir before the gladius split her skull. The others swept into the room. No words were exchanged. The others rushed the captain’s desk and grabbed handfuls of papers and ledgers. They stuffed them into the backpack that one of the Nolterite knights wore. Anfor gave them one minute to grab up what documents they could and ordered them out of the quarters with a slap to Thrain’s shoulder.
Sir Fashtin awaited them at the bottom of the quarter’s steps. The team fell into line behind Sir Fashtin and quickly made their way through the darkness. Fashtin’s sword came out and took a guard’s head off. He caught the body and lowered it to the ground. Then he continued to lead the column of soldiers down a ladderwell below deck.
The ship’s creaking seemed amplified in the enclosed space of the crew quarters. Other than that, the only sounds were of snores and a group of sailors in one room doing what sailors do best: gambling and swilling the liquor. They were the first to die. Fashtin and one of the Nolterites rushed the room and cut the four men apart before they could raise an alarm. They checked the room quickly for any records or information Gwynnud or Maras could exploit, but found none.
Two by two, the men moved quickly and silently into each room and slit the throats of each sleeping crewman, wizened petty officers, and slave-boys pressed into service aboard the ship.