It was a dark and cloudy night in Weldyn, the capital of Wesnoth; a perfect night on which to escape the city, and that's exactly what was to happen. Unfortunately, sneaking out of Weldyn turned out to be quite a bit harder than it seemed on paper.

"Halt," commanded the captain of the night-watchmen. "Identify yourself, and state your intent."

The boy nonchalantly turned to face the interrupting patrol. He was around eighteen years of age, stood just shy of six feet tall, and was built like a predatory cat; lithe, muscular, and constantly ready to pounce. He had stormy grey eyes, a ragged bird's nest of jet-black hair, and vaguely pointed ears. A bulging cloth sack was slung over his right shoulder, but he carried it as lightly as if it were empty.

The boy was wearing a loose-fitting cloth tunic and trousers, with nothing on his feet. Around his shoulders was a mottled brown cloak with a bronze star embroidered on the right shoulder; the mark of a Journeyman Mage. Mages who preferred studying the world first-hand, as opposed to simply reading books all day, were given the title 'Journeyman' and sent out into the world to learn as much as possible; many of the most powerful Mages in history had chosen to follow the path of the journeyman. But even Journeyman Mages weren't allowed to leave the city after nightfall, due to the influx of bandits in the area, and the boy knew this full well.

"My name is Karazin Dusk-walker," he said. "I'm just out for a walk; to get some fresh air and all that."

The patrol, consisting of the captain and five men wielding long Pikes, surreptitiously surrounded him; apparently, they didn't believe him.

"Young man," the captain said, his tone vaguely threatening, "Are you aware of Weldyn's curfew? No one is allowed to enter or leave the city after dark."

"Oh, I'm well aware of it," Karazin said, his face completely neutral, "I just don't care."

The captain was slightly taken aback at Karazin's blatant disregard for the law; he was expecting some sort of excuse, outright hostility maybe, or at least some sign of fear or doubt, but this boy seemed completely relaxed in the face of six highly trained warriors. He had an air of confidence around him; as though he was saying 'Why should I care? I could take you all out without half trying'. The captain almost believed him. They looked each other in the eyes, and the heavily armed, highly trained warrior found himself getting quite nervous about the strange young Mage.

"Well then," the captain said, shrugging aside his doubts, "I'm afraid you'll have to come with me."

"No."

Without any further warning, the boy jumped almost ten feet into the air; sailing clean over the ring of warriors and hitting the ground running. It would have worked too, if they had been anyone other than Royal Wesnothian Guardsmen; as it was, it would take more than a parlour trick like that to catch them by surprise. The moment the boy's foot touched the ground again, it was knocked out from under him by the back end of a pike. The boy landed face-first, and skidded a few feet before coming to rest.

"No!" he thought to himself. "This was my last chance; I can't fail, I can't! If I don't escape now..."

He didn't finish that thought, but instead took off running before the guards could surround him again. If the elite guards of Weldyn had one weakness, it was that their armour impeded their ability to run; although comparing his speed to theirs wasn't really fair. After all, they were only human.

Karazin ran full-tilt through the city to the outer wall; he'd originally planned to slip by the guards at the main gate, but the patrol he'd run into back there would have already raised the alarm. He'd just have to go to plan B then, the wall itself. The Wall of Weldyn was one of the greatest man-made fortresses of the age; about a hundred and fifty feet tall and more than fifty feet thick, made of four-foot cubic blocks of granite, and as sheer as a plum-line. But if he couldn't slip through the gate, Karazin would have to climb the wall.

Arriving at the foot of the wall, which then more resembled a small mountain, Karazin was struck by a sudden wave of doubt; to climb the Wall of Weldyn was considered next to impossible and for a normal human it would be, but even for him it would test the limits of his endurance. It would be another matter if he could use magic, but...

"You can't stop now," Karazin told himself. "If She catches you, it's all over; so just shut up and climb!"

Karazin opened his pack and pulled out two iron hooks, the kind used by the elite assassins of the far east for climbing wall just like these. With the climbing hooks in hand Karazin began making his way up the wall, finding foot and hook-holds in the cracks between the stone blocks; he knew undue speed would result in someone noticing him, so he worked with agonizing slowness. Every second felt like an eternity, and he constantly dreaded hearing a cry of alarm that would indicate he'd been spotted; as he climbed further up the wall, he expected that cry more and more. How could someone not notice him? It was inevitable! He wanted to climb as quickly as he could, to get out of there before he was discovered, but he knew if he did it would be his undoing. Wait, what was that sound; had he been seen? He had to go faster, but he couldn't go faster; what should he do?!

Then, he was on top of the wall; no one had seen him. In fact, it seemed there was no-one around to see him; all the guards must have flocked to the gate when the alarm sounded. Well, why shouldn't they? After all, climbing the wall was suicide! And yet there he was; muscles burning, heart racing, lungs heaving, and bruised all over, but he'd done it. What's more, he'd done it without magic; if he could do all that without using magic, maybe this was was possible after all.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," he thought. "After all, you still have to climb down."

Karazin looked down and cringed; it looked even higher now that he was up here. Still, now was no time to quit. Steeling his nerves, Karazin began lowering himself down the wall with as much care as he'd taken climbing up it; it wouldn't do to be caught halfway down, but for some reason the prospect didn't frighten him as much as it had on the way up.

With a sigh of relief, Karazin lowered himself onto to solid ground; no one would even know he was gone until dawn, and by then he intended to be as far away as possible. He was planning to cross the Great River, which served as Wesnoth's Northern border; it was a wide and fast-flowing river, and the Northlands beyond it were wild, untamed, and most importantly outside of Wesnothian control. The only people who lived there were Elves who kept to their forests, Dwarves who kept to their caves, Orcs who wouldn't care about a single traveller, and human bandits who wouldn't pose much of a threat as long as he kept his head down.

The only safe place to cross it was the Ford of Abez to the North, North-West. He couldn't go there now though, She will have undoubtedly told the garrison there to watch for him. Fortunately though, Karazin knew another crossing-point; it would be difficult and dangerous without magic, but not impossible. In fact, when compared to climbing the Wall of Weldyn, it was a relatively simple task. The best part, She didn't know about about it; it was known only by a select few people, and he'd interrogated one of them himself.

The hidden ford was to the North-East of Weldyn, just past a northern border post named Soradoc; to get there, he'd have to follow the River Weldyn North-East for several days. It seemed simple on paper, but Karazin knew from experience that things were seldom as easy as they seemed on paper; he knew that following the River Weldyn would lead him through bandit-infested hills, and confrontation was all but inevitable. Hopefully though, if he made enough of an impression on the first group that waylaid him, the rest would take a hint and steer clear of him from then on.

"What are you doing standing around?" he asked himself. "If you don't get moving, you'll never get to Soradoc."

"True enough," he mumbled.

After stowing his climbing hooks in his pack, Karazin brought out a small compass and, by the light of the phosphorescent fluid within, plotted a course North-East to join the River Weldyn. Once he'd decided his course, he set off at a brisk pace; not wanting to waste the coolness of the night. It was, he noticed against his will, a good night for travelling; the clouds above threatened rain by morning, but the air was crisp and cool. And even if it did rain, Mage-cloaks such as his were made to be water-resistant. He'd make good progress that night, and stop for a quick breakfast at dawn.

The journey to Soradoc was, as Karazin expected, quite a bit harder than he anticipated. He couldn't afford to follow any man-made trails, for fear of being caught, so he was forced the forge his own path. The River Weldyn helped keep him going in the right direction, but it was also a roundabout rout that cut through some fairly treacherous terrain; swamps and hills mostly. Still, his journey went uninterrupted for two days. He stopped to set up a makeshift camp at sundown, including a few small traps for rabbits, and nets for fish in the river, resuming his trek as soon as the sun rose again; he also took a brief pause for his midday meal, supplementing what few provisions he'd brought with him from Weldyn with whatever game or fish he caught overnight.

Karazin knew that the peace and quiet couldn't last forever; the closer he got to the border the safer he'd be from Her, but the more likely he was to run into bandits, or maybe even rogue Orcs. The Northlands were only safe in comparison, although more so for him. However, even he was surprised at how quickly he encountered trouble.

On the morning of the third day of his journey Karazin checked his traps, ate a quick breakfast, broke camp, and was on his way by the seventh hour. Before long he'd entered a section of low, rocky hills along the river; an inconvenience, but not a major obstacle. He didn't get far into them however, before he caught sight of figure sitting on a small boulder.

As he got closer, Karazin saw that the figure was a man; fairly tall and muscular, with blue eyes and a ragged shock of dirty blond hair. He was wearing thin brown wool trousers with leather greaves, scuffed leather gloves and boots, and a light leather tunic; all of which looked like they'd had better days. What caught Karazin's attention though was the battered, but well kept, steel longsword loosely strapped to the man's hip.

"Hey there traveller," the man called with a grin, jumping lightly down from the boulder. "Where are you headed?"

"North," Karazin said shortly; either this man was a highwayman, or Karazin was a long-eared bandicoot.

The man whistled softly. "That's a hard road; lots o' things could happen to a kid like you up in the Northlands. Especially now..."

"Now what?" Karazin asked, his curiosity piqued.

The man shook his head. "Nothin', just a rumour. Still, rumours or no, the North is no place for a kid travelling alone; there's bandits in these hills you know."

"You don't say," Karazin said dryly. "Look, if you're going to rob me just get it over with."

The man laughed at that; a deep, honest laugh, which didn't do much to dispel Karazin's doubts.

"Now why would I do that?" he said, gaining an expression of injured dignity. "I'm just an honest man who doesn't want to see a young man like yourself get beat up by bandits, or ripped to shreds by wild beasts."

"And your point is?" Karazin said, raising an eyebrow in a show of scepticism.

"My point is," the man said, his grin returning, "I'd like to offer my services as a bodyguard, to help you get to wherever you're goin'. For a small fee, of course."

Now it was Karazin's turn to laugh a little. "A small fee? I thought you said you weren't going to rob me?"

The man shrugged. "Just a little silver; enough to put a hot meal in my stomach, and maybe warm cloak around my shoulders."

Karazin shook his head. "Sorry, but I need what little I've got."

Karazin moved to walk past, but the man stepped to the side to block his path.

"You don't understand," the man said, his grin gone. "You don't know what you're gettin' yourself into; it's dangerous 'round these parts, and I don't want to see you get hurt."

"Neither do I; now get out of my way."

The man planted his feet. "No."

Karazin sighed. "Fine then; if that's how you want it."

Without further warning Karazin reached down to his hip and drew his sword, which had previously been concealed by his cloak. He planned to cut the sword from the man's belt, just to teach him a lesson, but his blade was intercepted before it had got within two feet of its target; Karazin's eyes grew wide as he realized that the man had already drawn his sword, and effortlessly parried Karazin's stroke with it.

Karazin quickly withdrew his sword and settled into a combat stance; the man did the same and the two circled each other waiting for the other to make a move, or a mistake. Eventually, it was the older man who made this mistake; momentarily losing his balance on the uneven, rocky terrain. Karazin exploited the momentary hole in the man's defences, and threw a quick stab at his opponent.

The man recovered quickly and parried the strike, and then launched a rapid volley of short front and back-hand slashes, relentlessly battering at Karazin's defences and forcing him to block, parry, or dodge rather than launching an attack of his own. Up until that point, Karazin had been fighting within the realms of human capabilities; but the man was proving to be a far more skilful swordsman than Karazin anticipated.

With a strength and speed that was quite obviously inhuman, Karazin whipped his sword up in a scything stroke which knocked his opponent's blade up and away. In that same motion, Karazin ruthlessly slashed downwards at the man's unguarded neck. He couldn't afford to show mercy to an enemy this strong, even if he wanted to.

The blow never landed; at the last second the man twisted his entire torso, allowing the incoming blade to flash past him with no more than a inch of distance between them. Not meeting the expected resistance, Karazin lost his balance and stumbled forward; before he could regain his footing, his sword was knocked out of his hand and tossed several feet out of his reach, and his feet were knocked out from under him.

Karazin caught himself before his face hit the ground, but his hands and knees were pretty well scraped by the rocks.

"Memo to me," Karazin thought to himself. "Next time you escape, bring gloves."

Karazin looked up, prepared to be robbed at sword-point, but instead saw that the man had already sheathed his sword. To Karazin's even greater surprise, the man then extended a hand to help him up. Karazin took the proffered hand tentatively, and the man hauled him to his feet.

"Why?" Karazin asked.

The swordsman shrugged, his smile returning; although to Karazin, it now seemed warmer and more kind somehow. "Like I said; I'm an honest man."

"I haven't met many honest men," Karazin said solemnly.

The swordsman's smile grew sad. "Aye, they're an endangered species to be sure. Still, I've known a few; and some of them paid dearly for their honesty."

The swordsman held out his hand again, this time for a handshake. "The name's Conan O'Neill; I'm from the North, if you couldn't tell from my accent. People 'round here seem to find it entertaining."

"I'm Karazin Dusk-walker," he replied, shaking Conan's hand, "It's a pleasant surprise to meet an honest man, especially here of all places."

"Aye," Conan agreed. "And it's a pleasant surprise for me to find such a skilled young swordsman here of all places. Speaking of which..."

Conan walked over to where Karazin's sword had landed and picked it up.

"This is an interesting sword you've got here," Conan said, giving a few practice swings. "I've never seen one like it."

It really was a strange sword by Wesnothian standards. In fact, it was made in the style of the far east; more than two and half feet in length and a little more than an inch in width, double-edged, straight as an arrow, and only tapering at the very end to a point. The hilt was wood wrapped in sturdy leather, ended in a small steel pommel cap, and transitioned into the blade with a small wing-like cross-guard inlaid with gold leaf. What really called attention to the blade though, was the colour; the entire blade was a light blue, and shimmered slightly in the sunlight as though it were being viewed under-water.

The reason for this, was that blade of Karazin's sword was made of Mersteel; a metalloid substance produced by certain deep-sea corals as a protective exoskeleton. Mersteel, once properly smelted and tempered, was stronger and harder than steel while being slightly lighter as well; a blade made of Mersteel could cut through almost any armour. Although the corals from which it was harvested only produced a few millimetres each year, making it rather scarce resource.

"I got it from an old friend," Karazin told him. "It's saved my life several times now."

Conan nodded and handed the sword back Karazin. "'Tis a good blade indeed; you'd do well to take good care of it."

Karazin took the sword with a gesture of gratitude, and deftly slid it back into its sheath.

"Thanks," he said. "I'll be sure to remember that. Oh, and before I forget, what did you mean by 'rumours' before?"

Conan folded his arms across his chest. "Well, I don't know much about it either way, but word is spreadin' like wildfire; they say Fort Soradoc has been burned to the ground."