Nudging his horse with his heels, he passed through what he was certain was the darkest, blackest shadow he had ever encountered and could not help the shiver that rocked him as he considered the implication of crossing such a veil. A moonlit figure emerged from a shadowed recess before him. Others might call the recess the door to the main hall. To him, it was perhaps a portal to H’khajnak, the demon realm.

The restless warrior took a steadying breath and forced his hands to release their tension on the reins. He was not successful in dispelling the tightness in his shoulders or the rest of his body, for that matter. The battle charger snorted and stomped, no doubt picking up on his rider’s anxiety. All the dread and struggles against the dangers he suffered to get here had finally pooled together and were threatening to overcome him. This was not the way an experienced veteran behaved. Perhaps he had finally cracked.

Despite the gloom, the moonlight was bright, and the rider could make out most of the features of the approaching figure. He was a middle-aged, stern-faced man whose only two facial expressions appeared to be blank stoicism and scowl. The moonlight reflected off his slightly balding crown but was absorbed into the coarse, dark material of his robe that fell to mid-thigh. The robe draped over a plain tunic and pants of dark color and fastened with a leather belt. If the belt had a buckle, he could not see it, for nothing the man wore reflected any light. With his head covered, he could probably disappear altogether, which was most likely the point. Although no weapons were visible, in this place, it was certain the man was well armed. The man stopped within a few paces but did not invite the rider to dismount.

“You brought it?” spoke a quiet, harsh voice.

“Yes—” the rider croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes, I brought him to you.”

The man grunted. “It matters little what you call it—him, if you prefer. It is no longer relevant.”

A sliver of the warrior’s terror receded, replaced with indignation. “Regardless of your intentions, you would do well not to forget who he is. You will regret it otherwise.”

The robed man nearly chuckled—nearly. “I was unaware you had a gift for prophecy. You had best remember that this,”—he pointed a gnarled finger at the wrapped lump resting against the warrior’s chest—“is not a person. It is a weapon, newly forged and as yet without an edge. Any who meet him will not live to remember it.”