Brother Faerbar walked through the snow without issue for the first several days of his trip. It was a long road to the north, though, and he doubted very much that he would make it to the heart of the maelstrom that only he could see without being noticed.

Such a thing would be impossible. Even now, in the height of the shattered daylight that the world was forced to endure, he could sense the darkness building and flowing. He was miles to the northeast of the ruins of Siddrimar, in the very heartland of the kingdom. It was a place that had known peace for centuries.

Despite that, the taint here was worse than it had been on the banks of the Oroza even before they’d purged the foul under temple.

Brother Faerbar sighed at that memory and at his foolishness. He’d know that the waters of the mighty river had turned to poison, spiritually speaking, but he’d never stopped to wonder who had been the one to poison it, and now everyone who had fought beside him in that dank place was dead.

He didn’t blame himself for any of that, though. Such a thing would dishonor their memories. Instead, he would honor their memories by fighting until he joined them in death.

The Templar had no idea whether the hallowed halls of the world after still remained or if he could even find his way to them, given that his God was nothing but dust now. Still, he contemplated those thoughts until he fell asleep next to the embers of his small fires.

That peace didn’t last forever. When he was near the halfway point of his trip, Brother Faerbar could feel the shadows beginning to stir as something finally noticed him.

He was not afraid, though. The Templar had spent a lifetime warring against the dark, and though some small part of him whispered that the candle of his life was beginning to gutter and that he would soon reach the end.

He ignored that, just like he ignored the flickering shadows that hid amongst the trees and the dead-eyed ravens that watched him from a distance as his armored feet crunched through the ice and snow.

Two days after the darkness started to watch him, there were only a handful of ravens and crows that circled him at a safe distance, but by the third day, there were hundreds as he slowly marched north. Brother Faerbar ignored them all since he lacked a bow, and they were well out of reach of his sword.

Let them watch, he thought bitterly. Let it see its doom coming.

The darkness would either face him now in some hurried ambush, or it would face him on the battlefield with an army at his back. Brother Faerbar hoped for both.

Two nights later, the first ambush came, deceitfully, while he was slumbering next to the dying embers of his cookfire. Unbeknownst to him, six vicious wraiths had spent the last few days pursuing him, and even while he slumbered, they waited amongst the roots and branches of distant trees for midnight.

When the world was at its darkest, the wraiths swarmed him as one from every direction. Despite the speed with which they flew through the night and the vicious-looking weapons they wielded, they made no noise. Each of them found their target, and together, they tried to skewer him in half a dozen places at once while he slumbered through the assault.

If they’d wielded steel instead of pure solidified darkness, then the blades that didn’t glance off his armor might have wounded him. Instead, the weapons made of pure glossy black umbra managed to scratch his skin. Then, before they could plunge deeper into something vital, they evaporated from the brief burst of light that issued from his wounds, cauterizing them instantly shut.

It wasn’t even the pain from such an attack that woke him up. It was the hideous death cries as those faint bursts of holy light dissolved his attackers into little bursts of foul black smoke. Brother Faerbar was on his feet in an instant after that, though he did not draw his sword yet. Not until he understood where the next attack would come from.

Farbear cursed his age as he looked into the dark with his burning eyes. The younger versions of himself would have heard the ambush well before they’d approached him. His hearing wasn’t the best either, though, and he only heard the rush of wind from the shadow dragon at the last possible moment as the thing above him dived toward him.

The Templar’s sword was out and just starting to glow as the shadow dragon roared its inhuman fury and vomited forth a torrent of shadows. The deep purple flames cast no light on any of the surrounding trees. Instead, they barrel toward the man as a sizzling wall of death.

“Demon!” Brother Faerbar roared, meeting the death sentence with a burst of light.

It never had a chance. Despite the chill as the darkfire almost reaches him, it vanishes in an instant. The dragon that was behind it isn’t so lucky.

Even as it opened its rotting maw wide to rip the Templar’s head off, he pivoted to the side, and before the monstrosity could pull up, Brother Faebar’s sword was there running along its rusted, scaly flank. For the first dozen fee, it found no purchase and made only a storm of sparks, but then it slipped into a gap between the scales and cut a huge rent that separated skin from bone and made the near wing flap limply as some vital tendons became unmoored.

The Templar had no idea if the thing had planned to come around for another pass before, but that was impossible. Instead, it crashed into a nearby tree, and then, even as he ran toward it, the monstrosity limped off into the sky.

“Face me, you coward!” Brother Faerbar shouted, shaking a fist at the sky.

It didn’t, though, and it was only as it disappeared into the night that he noted just how much damage those dark flames had done to the surrounding area. The surrounding snow had melted completely despite the lack of heat, but beneath that, the vegetation had been scourged to nothing. The trees weren’t spared either. All the nearby trunks were gone or eroded so badly that they’d toppled over in the direction of the blast. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Brother Faerbar didn’t sleep the rest of that night or on any of the other nights as he made his way north. After that, he only napped briefly for the period when three of the four suns were in the sky. He’d expected that the skeletons and zombies his enemy would send after him would be something that he could hear and see coming, but he’d been wrong.

Still, the crows never left him now. They haunted each night like a red-eyed constellation, and on some evenings, they outshined even the stars themselves.

Two nights later, he encountered his next serious ambush. Though the road had been entirely empty of farmers or merchants, which hadn’t come as a terrible surprise to the Templar given the weather and the state of the world, he eventually found someone waiting to bar his path.

Ahead of him were a handful of death knights on skeletal monstrosities that might have been distantly related to horses, backed by some two dozen zombies. Brother Faerbar smiled grimly at that and drew his blade once more.

He’d expected the death knights to charge immediately, but instead, they sent their zombies ahead to bog him down and waited until he was locked into combat before they charged him. That suited him fine. He wanted them all together before he showed his true power.

The Templar had not merely whiled away his time in the manor teaching children to fight and telling them the stories of Siddrim’s love. He’d spent a great deal of time pondering and understanding the gift he’d been given.

Inside of him, he had a piece of his God’s very soul, and It was more than a healing light or a flame that could be used to kindle that light in other people. If used correctly, it was also a raging bonfire, and that was the way he used it now.

“There is nothing to fear here,” he grunted as the death knights charged toward him.

Even as they rode down their own men in an effort to strike the killing blow that their zombies hadn’t been able to accomplish so far, the golden light from his eyes and his sword intensified. Moments later, the zombies nearest to him were already engulfed in a fire that was burning them from the inside out.

Though they didn’t panic per se, since they were mindless things, they did spasm and flail in agony, further slowing down the knights and giving the Templar the distraction he needed to unhorse the first one. The second and third both wounded him, but his wounds were closed, and their bodies were on fire even before they finished riding past him.

Only a few minutes later, Brother Faerbar stood alone with his chest heaving amidst the ashes and the still smoldering limbs of the corpses that had once been his enemies. Now, they were little more than a stain on the road. If they had faced him with ten times that number, they might have taken him, but only because age took almost as terrible a toll as the light that burned away within him.

Still, he would not be defeated until he reached his destination, and he resolved to make better time as he walked the empty road from deserted village to burned-down town before the enemy could assemble such a host.

That hammer never fell, though, for on the last night of his trip, when Brother Faerbar could see some signs of life as well as the first breaths of spring, he found only one man left to bar his way. “I should have known they’d send you,” the Templar said to the silhouette as soon as he figured out who it was.

Between the winter weather and his nighttime schedule, the world had been made monochromatic for most of his trip. Now, though, standing in front of Brother Faerbar on the muddy brown road was a thing wearing the cold blue skin of his dead squire.

“It is only right I pay my respects to you before the end,” the zombie croaked in a voice that was a little too rough to be human but still somehow familiar. “I want to be there for you in a way that you weren’t for me, at the end.”

It wasn’t Todd anymore. He was certain of that. No matter how well the creature was able to mimic the skin of the lad he once knew, he’d never believe it.

Brother Faerbar set his jaw and drew his sword but could not quite bring him to set it ablaze. “My squire did his utmost until the very end,” he declared. “He stood with Siddrim then, even as I do now. Your lies have no hold on me.”

“No?” the unclean spirit asked, approaching Brother Faerbar without a weapon drawn. “You don’t regret that you weren’t the one there that day? That you weren’t there to save either your God or your charge?” There was sadness in the construct’s voice, but to the Templar, it sounded more like mockery than regret.

“He was a grown man,” The Templar answered. “He did all anyone could ask of him.”

“How would you know?” the squire asked, drawing his sword as he saw his evil words failed to find their mark in his opponent. “Would you like to know his final words? Would you like to know that he died like a coward?”

Brother Faerbar’s grip on his sword tightened. He could feel his anger rising, but he would have felt the same even if the shard of Siddrim that resided in him hadn’t already revealed of the truth of those moments.

“If you wish to try to kill me, then let's get to it,” the older man grunted. “I have more important things to do than to reflect on the ghosts of the past.”

“Why rush to your grave?” the corpse laughed. “The boy you knew has been reformed and enhanced. He—”

The taunting spirit stopped talking as Brother Faerbar brought his sword down like a thunderbolt. It was parried by the silvered blade of his opponent, but the blow sent sparks out in all directions into the darkness. It took three attempts to land the first blow, though even the holy light of his sword seemed to do little when it pierced the monstrosity that he’d once counted as a friend.

“It will take more than that, old man,” the zombie masquerading as his squire laughed. “Death is only easy the first time. You’ll find that out soon enough, yourself.”

Each hateful word and each killing blow made the fire inside the Templar burn that much brighter. This zombie was more skilled than the real Todd had ever been, and it succeeded in cutting deep into him twice.

Those blows healed almost as soon as they were struck, though. It was a battle between one who could not die and another who was already dead. In a true battle of attrition, it would be the dead who would win, for they would never tire.

Even as Brother Faerbar began to breathe hard and the weight of his sword grew more noticeable, he knew it wouldn’t come to that. The face of his dear friend was already beginning to crisp, and golden-white fire was leaking from most of the wounds that Brother Faerbar had delivered. The construct was well-built, which made it slow in dying. It could not survive the light any more than the darkness’s other constructs, though.

More than twenty minutes after their terrible dual started, the zombie staggered and fell to one knee. The Templar’s first instinct was to surge forward and strike the killing blow, but he remembered too well the terrible explosion that another one of these terrible toys had once unleashed, so instead, he moved back and pulled the light tighter around him like a veil. The result was more than enough to shield him from the worst of the effects when the corpse of his squire detonated, littering the area with poisonous green gas and bone shrapnel.

Brother Faerbar walked on after that. He didn’t even pause for a moment to pay his respects. Why should he? Todd had died long ago; it was only his corpse that had now been laid to rest.