Chapter One: Well met, noble paladin.

The lights on the road behaved erratically, first bunching up tightly, then scattering across the wilderness, then bunching up tightly again. Kashya held her bow low, keeping one eye on the road and the other on the encampment's defenses. The rogues had gone to their positions on the walls with practiced precision, and the small force of mercenaries were milling about the gates, armed to the teeth and slowly arranging themselves in a more-or-less straight line.

"You there – in the blue robes! Yes, you! Get up here on the wall, sorcerer!" Kashya barked orders all about her. "You three, with the spears – second row, behind the swordsmen! Does everyone have healing potions?"

There were shouts of "Yes," and "No," and one particularly insolent "you can give me whatever potion you'd like, Kashya!" which incited a burst of laughter and crude applause from the mercenaries and a few particularly daring rogues. She made a mental note to find out who had said that, if she and they survived the night, and give him a brief lesson in manners. Uncomfortably.

As the lights grew closer, the jokes and shouts grew quiet. Rogues nocked arrows to their bowstrings, and the warriors raised their shields. "Sisters," Kashya shouted, "empty your minds! There is only the bow, the arrow, and the target! Let go your senses and use your Sight!"

The lights grew closer and brighter, and the sounds of battle washed over the defenders. "Refugees," Kashya whispered. Her face hardened, and she addressed the warriors with a shout. "We must go to their aid – they are beset by demons! Form up, three rows, swords in front, spears in the middle, bows in the back…" but her voice trailed off. There was an excited chatter along the walls as a new sound came to them, echoing even over the battle cries of demons and the clash of weapons.

"Kashya, do you hear singing?" one of the rogues asked her incredulously.

…Dominus vis est meus,

Victorius triumphantque.

Depugnamus in nomen Tuum,

As she heard the words, a wave of strength washed through her, and all about her she could see rogues and warriors alike standing taller and prouder, a lust for battle shining in their eyes.

The clouds over the moon parted and they saw on the Blood Moor an armor-clad man leading a small group of armed farmers, battling heroically against a vastly superior force of Fallen, and a handful of large, hairy Brutes. They kept the monsters away from the stumbling force of refugees, driving them back again and again, but with each advance, fewer and fewer of the farmers stood against the tide of demons. The armored man shouted the words of the chant in a loud, clear voice that never faltered, even when the blows of the demons glanced off his shield and armor.

The hymn echoed through her soul, and she fired an arrow from her bow without thinking. It exploded into lightning as it arced over the melee, and burst with a charged crackle when it hit a Fallen shaman in the chest. Kashya shouted something then, a wordless challenge, and the defenders at the gate of the encampment charged into the mass of demons while arrows filled the night sky. The monsters, intent on their quarry, were thrown into disarray and scattered into the wilderness. With a great cheer, the triumphant warriors descended on the bodies of the fallen demons, scavenging weapons and treasure while they congratulated each other on the decisive victory.

Kashya gave the order to stand down the alarm, and approached the gate to greet the new arrivals. In twos and threes, the battered refugees staggered through the gates. A woman clutched a young child to her breast, moving as quickly as her injuries would allow her. Others came behind – a boy carrying a bloodstained axe, too frightened and angry to mourn the loss of innocence, a proud old man who refused the rogues' help until all the others were treated, and many others. The rogues inside made places for them to rest. In the morning, they would continue their journey away from the Tamoe Mountains, towards the West Reach port, and across the Gulf to the relative safety of Westmarch.

The last through the gates was the armored man – he had lost his helmet in the final melee, and his ring mail coat was battered and bloodstained. His shield was on his back and his mace hung from his belt, and in his arms he carried a badly wounded man, one of the rearguard who had been struck down by the scimitars of the Fallen in the final minutes of the battle.

"This man needs more aid than I can give," he said to Kashya. The warrior-woman was struck by how young he was, and by the rings of exhaustion under his dark eyes. One eye was forced shut by a thin slash across his face, and other, more minor wounds showed all across his arms and body. Yet he still stood proudly, and in his eyes burned an endless determination. Across his chest was draped a tattered and bloodstained white tabard with a black cross emblazoned in the center.

A Zakarum fanatic, she thought to herself. That explains the chant – those paladins work their own magic around their hymns and prayers. "Akara will tend to him – lay him by the white tent with the other wounded," she said quietly.

Wordlessly, he knelt and gently placed the wounded man on a clean blanket by Akara's tent, and pulled a small vial from his belt. Uncorking the minor healing potion, he smeared some of the blood-red fluid on the man's wound and poured the rest down his throat. "That will buy him some time," he said simply.

Then he stood, pulled his mace from his belt, and turned to head back out into the darkness. Kashya caught him by the arm. "What do you think you are doing?" she hissed.

"Several of the men in my group fell while defending their families," the dark-haired warrior said thickly, fatigue affecting his speech. "Some might have survived. I'm going back out there to see if I can help them."

"You will stay where you are!" Kashya commanded. "Any who fall in the wilderness at night are lost – a fact you must know, if you've made it across the Cold Plains with that group."

Kashya scowled as the young man blinked several times, finally focusing on her face. "We cannot know that," he argued obstinately. "They will certainly perish if no one goes to them."

"You will go out to your death! There are God only knows how many demons out there, and you've been wounded. When was the last time you slept?"

The paladin seemed to think about the question for a moment, and then his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Three nights ago… we've been beset every time we stopped to rest."

Sensing that this man would not simply allow himself to do nothing, Kashya gently took his arm. "Stay here, warrior, and help with the wounded. I have heard it said that your prayers have healing powers – you have done much to help these people. Can you do a little more?"

The challenge put a bit of fire back into the man's eyes. He stood taller, and Kashya could see him lock away his pain and fatigue. "The Church of the Light is always ready to help those in need," he said. It would have sounded pompous if the words had not been said with superhuman determination. "Where can I be of most use?"

Kashya led him to center of the camp, where the wounded lay in rows as Akara and a handful of refugee healers tended to them. "What can I do?" the paladin asked.

"Pray," Akara said simply.

The warrior knelt to the ground and began a whispered incantation. As Kashya left, she felt a brief tingle in her body as the subtle power of the man's faith coursed through her. It stopped when she brought herself farther away, but even in those few seconds, she felt the aches and pains of the last few days fade slightly.

During the remainder of the night, she reorganized the watch on the walls, broke up a brawl between two warriors over a magical dagger that had been found on one of the demons, restocked her quiver, and ensured that two chests of healing potions were ready to be delivered to Flavie at first light.

As dawn broke over the Blood Moor, she returned to Akara's tent. The older woman was still in her blood-flecked healing robes, applying clean white bandages and red potions to the last of the wounded. In the center of it all, the Zakarumite still knelt, still whispering his devotion to the Light. As Kashya watched, Akara finished with the last man, and walked slowly and stiffly over to the young man. She touched him on the shoulder.

The armored man looked up painfully. "Is it done, then?" he asked, his words slurred and indistinct.

"Yes," Akara replied quietly. "Thanks to you, everyone survived the night."

"The Light be praised." And with those words, the man slumped over on his side, unconscious.