Dhamon turned. In the twilight, with the stars just starting to appear, his father’s face was indistinct, but he could sense that it was etched with sadness and concern.
“I have to choose my own path, father, like you did. And I want to do this now. No. I have to do this.”
Dhamon was going to say other things; that his father might succeed in stopping him now, but maybe not the next time and certainly could not hold him here forever. That he had no desire to be a Solamnic Knight come next spring or the spring after that. He wanted to go with the Knights now. But Dhamon didn’t say anything else, he simply watched as his father drew his hands up to the back of his neck and unfastened the clasp of a chain.
“I was only a year older than you when I went off on my own,” his father said, the resignation heavy in his voice, “and your mother would cry if she knew I was letting you go now. But I wager if I stop you now, I’ll only be keeping you here for a little while longer. Still, I’ve a hope you’ll see this all as a foolish notion and come back sooner or later.”
He held the chain in one palm. Dhamon’s father had worn the chain every day of every year. Dhamon had never seen him take it off, until now. “My father gave this to me the day I left home.” The chain was silver, sparkling faintly, and from it dangled an old gold coin with worn edges. Dhamon moved closer.
There was a man’s profile on the coin, bearded and with an unusual-looking helmet topped by a dangling plume from which hung a “1”. The man’s eye was a tiny, bluish diamond.
“Ours is a very old family, Dhamon,” his father said. “We trace our roots to Istar. More than eight hundred years before the Cataclysm, Istarians traded throughout the world. Our ancestors were said to have been among the richest merchants, owning a grand fleet and commanding shares in every caravan that crossed the interior.”
Dhamon nodded, remembering some of the stories his father had told and retold after dinner on special occasions.
“These merchants set aside their work during the Third Dragon War and took up weapons. Then they took up shovels and began to help people rebuild and prosper. One of our ancestors, Haralin Grimwulf, chose to aid the dwarves.”
“I remember the story,” Dhamon said. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, wanting to leave before his father managed to say something that would change his mind and make him stay.
“It was shortly after the war that the dwarves of Thorbardin were granted rights to mine in the Garnet Mountains. This was said to be the very first coin minted from there.” His father pointed to the “1” and to the diamond. “This is an extremely special coin. No other exists just like it, not even in the great storehouses in Palanthas.”
Worth a great deal because it was gold and set with a diamond, Dhamon knew, worth more if indeed it was so ancient and singular—certainly worth enough to buy his father a large farm and livestock. A true relic, a true family legacy.
“This coin was given by the dwarves to Haralin—for his help in the Third Dragon War and for working with them as they established the garnet mine. It has been passed down through the centuries from father to son. And now I’m giving it to you.” He placed it around Dhamon’s neck and tucked the coin under the V of his shirt. “Go to your Dark Knights, son. I’ve every confidence you’ll eventually learn you’ve no place with them and that you’ll either come home or find some other grand adventure.
When you settle down, and when you raise your own family—though you may be very far from here—give this coin to your own first son and tell him of our Istar roots.”
His father’s eyes were watery, but he did not cry.
“I will pass this on to my first son,” Dhamon vowed, “but I will find a place with the Dark Knights, father.” And I will ride the dragons, he added to himself. “You will be proud of me.” Then, gladdened that his father hadn’t stopped him, he turned and sprinted away so his father wouldn’t see his own tears.
He didn’t stop running until he reached the Knights’ camp.
“Dhamon Grimwulf,” the field commander cried when he spotted him approaching beyond the last row of tents.
The sky was caught between night and morning, those hazy few moments when the world appears indecisive about whether to go on. There’s a silence then, the animals seeming to hold their breath in anticipation. Then the line of rosy pink touches the far horizon, the birds start singing, and Krynn announces yes, there will be another day.
“I am going to be a Dark Knight,” Dhamon stated. His shoulders were square, his chin thrust out, his eyes filled with a fierce determination. He expected the field commander to repeat that he was too young, to send him back home, but that didn’t happen.
“Help Frendal with his tent,” the commander returned jauntily. “We’ll be leaving soon for Nightlund.
We’re going to join up with another unit. You will have much to learn along the way, young Grimwulf.
And if you pass the tests….” There was a pause, and the commander looked Dhamon over carefully.
“I will pass all of your tests, Sir.”
“Then I will be the first to welcome you into the fold.”
There were times when Dhamon swore he was too tired to sleep. There was no part of him that didn’t ache; his arms especially ached—from carrying supplies and practicing with a sword. His fingers were so calloused they bled for days, and just when he thought they’d started to heal he was given a new weapon to learn and heavier packs to carry, and they’d start bleeding all over again. He never entertained the notion of quitting, though the field commander had asked him if he cared to quit on more than one occasion. Each night he tugged the ancient coin from beneath his shirt, ran his thumb around the edge, and wondered what his family was doing.
Dhamon had expected the training to be rigorous, but he also expected some amount of glamor and excitement—and of course battles. All around him the men sparred and sharpened their weapons, polished their armor and talked about the ogres they expected to fight in Nightlund. Dhamon was left out of most conversations, though Frendal seemed to make it a point to chat with him once in a while. Once he even asked Dhamon about the old coin, and Dhamon welcomed the opportunity to regale him with the tale of the ancient Istarian merchant who’d been rewarded by the dwarves. But mostly Dhamon kept to himself and watched and waited, and in the quiet time when he had a break, he often practiced alone with a borrowed weapon.
One day they were nearing the Nightlund border, camping in a farm field, when Frendal assigned Dhamon a sparring partner. Dhamon performed poorly the first few sessions but quickly mastered swings and defensive poses and began to develop maneuvers of his own. Before the week was out he had won a match against a seasoned Knight. His real training started then, more intense than he could have imagined. His hands bled worse than ever, and his evenings were filled with studies by candlelight. He was tasked with committing to memory the precepts of the Order, the chain of command, and the storied history of the Dark Knights.
When they finally joined up with a second unit—across a Vingaard tributary and well into Nightlund now—he was tested first by Frendal, then the field commander, and finally put through an examination by a gaunt-looking Knight who wore robes rather than plate armor and whose facial features could have placed him anywhere between the age of forty and sixty.
“So young,” the gaunt Knight commented, “to want to follow our ways.”
Dhamon respectfully nodded, unsure if he was supposed to address the man directly.