The life of an wandering knight lacked the gallantry and pomp of an anointed one. Meals were far too infrequent, coin purse forever light and nothing felt better than the spit of a noble as it accompanied their sneering glance. Without title or fealty, every day was a grim reminder of Voln's fall from grace. Death before dishonor, as they said, but what was a man's recourse when death eluded him? He suppressed such dour thoughts; there was a job to be done.
Larion was burning, quite literally, as the Dragon Queen's hordes romped their way about the Western Territories. Such a brazen annexation wasn't entirely surprising as the Imperial Army had already been driven into a desperate retreat after its ill-fated campaign in the Northern Lands of Gil; a military blunder that was another matter entirely. Voln felt a tinge of pity for the routed forces of Larion - he'd once been among them - but was their defeat entirely undeserved? No, that blame fell upon the Imperial Army's leadership, fools of whom he was entirely too familiar with. The men and women that once marched under his banner were only pawns on this game board. A small piece tossed about by larger pieces, who in turn were pawns of their own, hidden masters...
"I see you've received my letter," Misha said with a smirk, "and came with haste."
Voln nodded. His mind wandered to the last time he saw her, so long ago now, at a feast held in honor of some minor victory. She'd looked beautiful then, though perhaps a bit more tired than usual. Her hair hung loose over a simple black gown, and she wore no jewelry save a thin gold chain around her neck. Now she wore the battleplate belonging to a captain of the Imperial Guard, gleaming in the sunlight like a silver moon. Her face was even paler than before, almost ghostly, and her eyes seemed even wearier. Yet she smiled.
"Misha..." Voln said softly. "It has been too long."
She laughed. "Yes, I'm afraid so. It seems we're all getting older, and not just the ones with grey in their hair. You look well, Voln."
He shrugged at her lie, "I am well enough. And you?"
Her smile faded slightly. "Well enough, yes. We all have our duties to attend to, don't we?"
There was no doubt she'd heard of his exile, following the fall of Tarkut and the loss of Nerimed. Most had. Voln had barely managed to maintain his worn and battered plate, let alone the small warband that once followed him into exile. He was on his own now, and Misha was doing an old friend a favor just by offering an audience.
"Troubles to the west, Voln. Troubles I cannot attend to at the present." Her pale eyes drifted for a moment, as if preoccupied by some lingering worry; she refocused. "Troubles that require a man of your skillset."
"What sort of trouble?" Voln asked. He didn't much care for the Imperial Guard. They were too quick to draw weapons and too fond of using them, somewhat surprised that Misha now led them.
"The Western Territories are burning, Highcrest chief among them. Dragons, from what I hear."
"News carries fast," Voln mused, "how did you get here so quickly? This camp looks quite established."
Misha chuckled. "A few friends, a little information, and a whole lot of luck. There's always room for the lucky, you know."
Voln nodded, "I suppose there is. So, what do you need me for?"
"Your services are still required," she said, eyes lingering upon Voln's mantle-clad figure: a battered suit of metal containing an even more so battered man. The blemished steel of his plate bore the scars of battle like ill-earned trophies; deep grooves that namely lined its pauldrons, breastplate and vambraces. By maul, steel and claw, Voln's battle-bruised carapace persisted, but for how much longer? Could a man truly exist in such a thing?
"The situation is dire. The Imperial Army has retreated to the city of Ralnek, and my Imperial Guards are trying to hold the line should they fall. It would be a waste if the Dragon Queen should conquer the West. If she does, then we'll lose our last foothold in the Northern Lands in an attempt to quell her, and that will be the end of us."
"What can I do?"
"You've fought dragons before," Misha replied. "Your name is known. Your reputation precedes you."
Voln nodded slowly, "My name, yes. My reputation, no."
"You're a hero, Voln. A great warrior of Larion. Surely you have a few tricks up your sleeve."
This made him laugh a grave laugh, "Perhaps, but what good is one sword against an army of dragons?"
"When were you ever a mere swordsman?" His former companion raised a brow, hands resting at cocked hips.
"My sorcery cost us Tarkut. Cost me my title."
Misha nodded. "So it did. But if you have the skill, perhaps you could find another use for it. I have heard rumors of the Dragon Queen's magic. The stories say she has powers beyond the understanding of mortal men. She's already conquered the Eastern Lands, and they were ruled by a necromancer before her." Misha's dim, grey eyes met the dark slit of his visor, searching, "You might be able to do something, Voln."
The errant knight could feel her gaze boring into him. He wanted to shrug it off, but knew better. Time had already taken its dues from them both; Voln didn't need to ask to know that much. Though she wore the plate of the Imperial Guard, the Eagle of Larion embossed upon her shoulder, Misha was still a woman. Voln wasn't blind. He could see the way her eyes lingered on his shoulders. He could hear the faint, almost imperceptible catch in her breath when he turned away.
"If I could... if I had the chance," he began. "I might try. But I don't think I'm strong enough."
"I asked of you, many moons ago, just after your exile. The High Lords had proclaimed your damnation, a wandering husk; I would not believe it. Please, Voln, I beg you, give yourself a chance."
Voln shook his head. "I am nothing, a shadow of a man. You know this."
"No, Voln. No one knows your honor better than I." The air was thick with unsaid words, and the silence stretched on for what felt like hours. Finally, Voln sighed. "I will do what I can. But I have a question, Misha."
"What is it?"
The battle-scarred warrior spoke lowly, softly even, as he took a step closer. "Why now? Why do you come to me now, when the world of men burns with deceit and despair?"
Misha's smile was sad. "Because you are a man of honor. I have faith in you, Voln. More than I have left in the world."
The knight stepped back, caught off guard by her sentiment, then straightened.
"I will head West, to Ralnek, and see for myself the state of the surrounding territories. For you."
Misha stood and clasped his arm. "Thank you, Voln. I am forever in your debt."
He watched her turn to face her tent; a woman of duty and honor, but a woman all the same. "And I will return," he muttered, "one day."
The sun was low, hanging like a ripe fruit just above the horizon. The first rays of the morning sunlight glimmered over the trees lining the road leading to the city of Ralnek. Voln traveled alone, as he had for many years, and could see the burgeoning embattlements from some distance. It looked like a siege. He'd never been to the city of Ralnek, and didn't know anyone who had. Before the war, most people said it was a sleepy town of merchants and farmers, but those days were long gone. Now, the streets of the city teemed with soldiers and mercenaries, all of whom looked hungry.
He paused, taking a deep breath, then another. The fighting had not yet battered the gates of Ralnek, but it soon would. There was no doubt about that. Voln knew he needed to be inside the walls before the fighting started. The first battle would not break Ralnek, no, it would be a probe. A few dozen Kobolds, perhaps even accompanied by their dragonling masters, but it would not suffice. Once the draconic host knew of Ralnek's defenses it would crash upon the walled city like a tidal wave of smoldering fire and death; Volk needed to be here when it did.