Knights of the Sword

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Unarmored, Sir Marod of Ellersford had never been a great burden for a horse. He was a head taller than the average, but also a span narrower. One who had trained him in youth was said to have jested:

“Think you to defeat all archers, by standing sideways? Think again, young Marod!”

That was forty years ago. Now Marod was no longer young, but a Knight of the Rose in the ranks of the Knights of Solamnia. Still he remained lean.

So his mount had easy work, carrying him up to the crest of a hill not far from Dargaard Keep. He did not look at the great mass of stone and the outbuildings that sprawled about it but instead westward, toward the sunset.

Low but spike-crested hills rose there, where thousands of years of rain and wind had worn away soft outer rock from around harder cores. Some of the spikes rose against the crimson and gold blazing across part of the sky. Others were lost in spreading blue-grayness where storm clouds gathered.

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