The Paladin's Tale (2 page)

She bent over, weeping.

“I am sorry for your losses,” said Arandar. “Do you have any kinsfolk left?”

“Three daughters,” said Cora. “I think…I think some of their husbands might have survived. I couldn’t see. There was so much screaming…”

“If we can rescue them, I promise you, we shall,” said Arandar, straightening up. “Cassius. Detail two men. Have them take Cora and ride with all haste to Castra Durius. The Magistrius was right.”

“I was?” said Orlan, blinking. “Wait. Yes. Of course I was.”

“The Dux must be warned,” said Arandar. “But I will not abandon the people of Novindum to slavery and death. We…

“Decurion!” shouted one of the men-at-arms.

Arandar turned and saw a blur in the trees.

“Down!” he roared, throwing himself to the ground. An arrow hissed over his head a moment later. Cora screamed and Orlan shouted, casting a spell. Arandar rolled to his feet and saw four Mhorite orcs in green and brown hurrying through the trees, bows in their hands. Cassius was already charging them, and Arandar sprinted after the Optio, reaching for his shield and drawing his sword. He had insisted that his men keep their swords on their belts and their shields upon their harnesses even when mounted, and he was grateful he had obeyed his own command. One of the orcish archers sighted on him and released, and Arandar caught the shaft upon his shield, the vibration of the impact shooting up his shoulder and into his arm.

The Mhorite orc’s black eyes, red-glazed with the fury of battle, widened in surprise, and the archer cast aside his bow and yanked a short sword from his belt. The warrior charged with a howl, and Arandar interposed his shield, splinters flying from its surface. He retreated as the warrior attacked with wild fury. The Mhorite was strong and fast but unskilled, and Arandar had been trained by the sword masters of Tarlion. He spotted the gap in the orc’s defenses and struck. His blade of steel sank into the orc’s neck, blood welling up, its metallic smell filling his nostrils. Arandar wrenched his blade free as his foe collapsed to the forest floor, dying.

Cassius and the other men-at-arms dueled the Mhorites while Cora huddled in horror at the base of the tree. Orlan backed his horse away, eyes wide with fear, the white light of a magical ward playing around him. Arandar felt a brief stab of contempt for the Magistrius’s cowardice and then charged into the fray. He bashed a surprised Mhorite across the face with his shield, stabbed with his sword, and sent the orc to the ground. In a matter of moments the fight swung their way, with the sole remaining Mhorite fleeing into the trees.

“Don’t let him get away!” said Arandar, pointing his bloody sword. One of the men-at-arms raised a bow, drew back the string, and released. The shaft planted itself between the fleeing Mhorite’s shoulder blades, and the orc collapsed to the ground.

Silence fell over the trees.

“Where are they?” said Orlan, his voice shrill. “Where is the foe? Where?”

“Scouts,” said Arandar, cleaning the blood from his blade. One always cleaned the blood from the blade. Otherwise rust might set in, or worse, the sword would get stuck in its scabbard when the blood congealed, and that half-second delay could mean death. “This Qazamhor was clever enough to send out scouts to cover his trail. A pity the scouts were foolish enough to fight us. Now none shall return to warn of our coming.”

Unless, of course, other scouts had been clever enough to watch from a distance and slip back to their shaman with news.

“Surely you do not mean to continue after this?” said Orlan. “We have been attacked! We must fall back to Castra Durius and obtain reinforcements.”

“Cassius, select two men to take Cora to Castra Durius,” said Arandar. “Once they are clear, we will continue. I want to overtake Qazamhor as soon as possible.”

“You will lead us to our deaths, bastard,” hissed Orlan. Cassius glared at him, and the Magistrius quailed a little, but Orlan kept speaking. “I do not know what kind of indulgences your blood has won you, but you have no powerful father to protect you here.”

Again Arandar pictured putting his fist into Orlan’s face, but he restrained himself. He had been taunted about his blood and bastardry by far more powerful men than the Magistrius Orlan.

“No, I do not,” said Arandar, “so we shall have to trust to our steel and valor instead.”

###

The next morning, Arandar sat atop his horse, making sure to keep well away from the nearby hill.

The black standing stones atop the hill had an evil aspect to them.

They had traveled until it had at last been too dark to follow the trail. Arandar had called a halt, the men making camp, and they had continued onward at first light. The trail remained easy to follow, and several times they had found the corpses of villagers too old to keep up with their captors.

Arandar vowed that they would be avenged.

Then the scouts reported a group of orcs moving through the hills, and Arandar ordered a halt.

“The trail heads right for a narrow ravine,” said Cassius. “Perfect for an ambush.”

“Or a lair,” said Arandar, watching the surrounding trees. “Warbands have been coming out of Kothluusk for months. If this Qazamhor has been raiding the borderlands of Durandis, he might have built himself a little castra up here to store his loot and his captives.”

“Makes sense,” said Cassius. “Hauling their loot and captives back to the mountains would be a lot of work. Easier to store it here.”

“What of this other warband?” said Arandar.

“A hundred strong,” said Cassius, lowering his voice. “A hundred and fifty, perhaps. Well-armored and armored. Good swords, steel plate. If it comes to a fight, we will have a hard time of it.”

“Plate?” said Arandar. “Where did the Mhorites get steel plate? Usually they are armored in leather and wool. Chain mail for the chieftains, if they’re fortunate enough.”

“Perhaps they raided a dwarven caravan, sir,” said Cassius. That was a grim thought. The Mhorites were fierce, and weapons and armor of dwarven steel would make them far more dangerous. “In any event, they’re making for the ravine. Possibly more Mhorites come to Qazamhor’s call, or another of his warbands.”

“Which means he is building an army,” said Arandar. The only thing that kept the Mhorites from assailing Durandis and the rest of the High Kingdom was their constant internecine slaughter. If a strong enough leader arose to unite the Kothluuskan tribes, the entire realm would face war.

“That could be, sir,” said Cassius.

“Then we wait here,” said Arandar. “If this new warband links up with Qazamhor, we’ll be overwhelmed. Best to defeat them separately.”

“And if Qazamhor sallies forth from the ravine to attack us in the back?” snapped Orlan. The Magistrius sat huddled upon his horse, shooting fearful glances at both the ravine and the ring of black menhirs atop the nearby hill.

“Then we fight,” said Arandar. “But if we can defeat the foe in detail, then we have a far better chance of victory. I will not abandon the people of Novindum, not while we still have a chance to save them.”

“We can join them in their graves,” said Orlan.

Arandar gave no answer to that. He wished he could have sent the Magistrius to Castra Durius along with Cora, but Arandar might have need of Orlan’s magic before all was done. Even if the Magistrius was useless in fighting, his healing spells would prove useful. If Orlan’s spells could save even one wounded man, Arandar would gladly endure the Magistrius’s constant carping.

They waited in the shadow of the hill. Arandar shot a glance at the ring of black standing stones on the hill’s crest. They seemed to draw the eye, their sides adorned with strange, twisted carvings. In ancient days, long before humans had ever walked this world, the dark elves had raised those stones, enchanting them with potent spells of dark magic and using them to augment their sorcery. The ring was deserted, but such a thing sometimes drew the war beasts of the dark elves, urvaalgs and ursaars and worse creatures, and it would have been better to move on. But this was the best position to block anyone from entering the ravine, and so they waited.

The scouts burst back into sight, and the orcish warband following them.

“God and his saints!” said Arandar, reaching for his sword hilt. “Why didn’t the scouts warn us? Men! To arms! To…”

“Wait, sir! Wait!” said Cassius. “Those are not Mhorites.”

He was right. These orcs lacked the distinctive facial scarring and tattoos of the Mhorites. The Kothluuskan orcs armored themselves in a hodgepodge of leather and fur, but these orcs wore chain mail and plate. A huge orcish man of middle years led them, his head shaved save for a gray topknot, his yellowed tusks rising from the gray fall of his beard. He carried an enormous steel warhammer in his right fist, bearing the massive weapon with the ease of a man carrying a light branch.

“They’re Rhaluuskan, aren’t they?” said Arandar. “Not Kothluuskan?”

“They are, sir,” said Cassius.

“Splendid!” said Orlan. The Magistrius smiled for the first time since they had left Tarlion. “The Rhaluuskan orcs have long been allies of the realm. They have accepted both baptism and the authority of the High King, and are bitter enemies of the Mhorites.”

“Thank you for the lesson in history, Magistrius,” said Arandar.

“I know their headman, sir,” said Cassius. “Fought alongside him ten years ago, last time I was in Durandis. I’ll introduce you. Might want to dismount, if you’ll forgive the suggestion. The Rhaluuskan orcs are a prickly lot, and I don’t think you’ll want to offend them, sir.”

“Indeed not,” said Arandar, dropping from his saddle.

“I am a Magistrius of the Order, learned in the magical arts taught by the archmage Ardrhythain himself,” said Orlan. “I shall not…”

“Wait here,” said Arandar, and walked away before Orlan could protest.

He and Cassius stopped before the advancing Rhaluuskan orcs, and the big warrior with the hammer raised a fist. The warriors stopped, and the leader took a few steps forward, his craggy face inscrutable, his black eyes solemn.

“Well,” said the towering orc at last, his voice a rasping snarl, “we meet again, Cassius of Tarlion.” He spoke Latin with the thick accents of Rhaluusk. “You’re gotten older and thinner. You look like a withered old stick.”

“And you, lord headman,” said Cassius, “have gotten fatter.”

Arandar blinked at the insult.

The orcish headman threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Aye, too much fine food and soft living. Well, we’ll smash some Mhorite heads. Been too long since I’ve had a good fight.”

“This is our Decurion, Arandar of Tarlion,” said Cassius. Arandar offered a bow to the headman. “Decurion, this is Crowlacht of Rhaluusk, a headman of Rhaluusk and a sworn liegeman of the King of Rhaluusk.” He paused. “He's decent enough with that hammer.”

“Decent?” said Crowlacht. “Bah! Watch me in battle, and you will see heads explode like melons thrown from the battlements of a castra.”

“A…colorful image, my lord headman,” said Arandar.

“What brings a hundred men-at-arms of the High King to the foothills of Kothluusk?” said Crowlacht.

“Fire and sword,” said Arandar. “The High King sent us to the Dux of Durandis to help defend against Mhorite raiders. On our way, we saw the smoke of Novindum. The village has been burned, and its people taken into captivity.”

Crowlacht growled, and Arandar resisted the urge to take a step back. “I feared as much. The watchmen upon the towers of Castra Durius saw the signal fire, but all the knights and men-at-arms of the Dux are fending off the raiders. The King of Rhaluusk sent us to aid his friend Dux Kors, and so the Dux dispatched us to relieve Novindum.”

“From what we have gathered,” said Arandar, “the raiders are led by a shaman of Mhor named Qazamhor.”

Crowlacht growled again. “We of Rhaluusk know him. A wicked man, and deep in the worship of that demon Mhor. His dark magic is very strong. He has troubled us for years, and as his power grows so do the number of his followers. I fear that he will soon try to unite the tribes of Kothluusk and lead an army against the realm in the name of Mhor.”

“We followed the Mhorites here,” said Arandar. “They went into that ravine.” He pointed at the entrance. “I hoped to rescue the captives before Qazamhor could retreat to a strong place with his spoils.”

“It may be too late for that,” said Crowlacht. “I know that ravine. I’ve fought there, and my father fought there, and his father before him. There’s a ring of the cursed dark elven stones within the ravine, so the Mhorites gather within for their bloody rituals. Worse, the ravine is a strong place. It can be easily fortified, even by a band of brigands, and a dozen different raider chiefs have used it as a lair over the centuries.”

“Then you think that Qazamhor has built himself a stronghold here?” said Arandar.

“Most likely,” said Crowlacht. “The ravine is a likely place for the raiders to use. I hoped to intercept them and give them a taste of cold steel.” He slapped the head of the massive hammer against his left palm. “Unfortunately, it seems they arrived before we could catch them.”

“We killed a group of scouts on our way here,” said Arandar. “It’s possible the Mhorites don’t realize they are in peril.”

“We could catch them off guard!” said Crowlacht, a glimmer of red battle rage coming into his black eyes. He might have been old and fat, but Arandar would still not want to face the headman in battle. “But to charge in would be folly. If Qazamhor has the wit God gave a turnip, he’ll have raised a barricade and set a guard. They can shoot us full of arrows while we pound at his gates.”

“It’s a ravine,” said Arandar. “We shall send a few men to climb ahead, look down, and report the enemy’s preparations. Then we shall know how to proceed.”

“A sound plan,” said Crowlacht. “I will send some scouts.”

“I will go myself,” said Arandar.

Crowlacht grunted. “Do you not have scouts?”

“I do,” said Arandar, “but if I am to lead my men into battle, then I must see what they will face. I will not ask any man under my command to do something I am not willing to do myself.”