The Paladin's Tale (3 page)

Crowlacht considered this for a moment. “Very well. I shall accompany you, and we will see for ourselves what Qazamhor intends.”

###

A short time later, Arandar made his way through the trees, Crowlacht following behind him. He had left his armor with Cassius, since it would make too much noise. Crowlacht had done the same, wrapping the head of his hammer in a thin layer of cloth to hide the gleam of the metal, which Arandar suspected would do nothing to lessen its effectiveness as a weapon.

He climbed the hill step by step, a bow ready in his hands, an arrow waiting upon the string. Crowlacht followed in equal silence. Near the top of the hill Arandar returned the arrow to his quiver, dropped to his hands and knees, and started crawling on his belly. Crowlacht followed suit with surprising grace for such a large man. The orcish headman tapped Arandar upon the shoulder and pointed. He spotted a Mhorite guard standing some distance away, bow in hand, and two more on the other side of the ravine. Arandar nodded and pulled himself the final few feet to the top of the hill.

Below the ravine yawned, and Arandar saw Qazamhor’s camp.

The shaman had built himself a stronghold at the end of the ravine. The ravine narrowed and opened into a large hollow, and across the narrowest point rose a wall of rough stone, a single gate closed in its center. A trench had been dug below the wall and lined with wooden stakes, and a dozen Mhorite orcs stood guard on the rampart.

In the hollow stood a sprawling camp. Tents clustered against the walls of the ravine, surrounding a crude hall constructed of rough-hewn logs. Nearly a hundred Mhorite warriors stood within the wall, some eating, some sleeping, some tending to weapons and armor. Several of them stood guard over a large pen on the hollow’s northern side, a pen that held hundreds of human women and children.

The villagers of Novindum.

A circle of dark elven standing stones rose in the center of the camp, their sides carved with misshapen sigils and grotesque figures. In the center of the ring stood an altar of rough stone, its sides made even darker with spilled blood. The symbols upon the menhirs flickered with a peculiar glow, and a strange haze flickered over the altar. Arandar suspected that someone had been working powerful magic there.

Crowlacht tapped his shoulder again and pointed.

A tall, gaunt figure in a ragged black coat stepped from the wooden hall, a rough staff in his right hand. It was an orcish man, seven feet tall, but so thin and wasted his face looked like green leather pulled tight over a tusked skull. Beneath the coat he wore only rough trousers and sandals, and upon his sunken chest burned symbols written in blood-colored fire.

They were marks of dark magic, of sorcery fueled by innocent blood. Almost certainly the gaunt orc was Qazamhor himself.

Crowlacht’s hard face grew even starker.

Arandar watched the activity in the camp for a while. Qazamhor kept his warriors busy. Some of them worked upon reinforcing the wall, while others went back and forth through the gate to the ravine, cutting down trees and hauling the wood back to the camp. They were building bonfires around the menhirs.

At last Crowlacht tapped Arandar’s shoulder once more and beckoned, and they made their way back down the slope.

“There cannot be more than a hundred and twenty or a hundred warriors there,” said Arandar when they were far enough away to speak. “If we get inside the walls, we can take them. Or we can trap them here until reinforcements arrive from Castra Durius.”

“We may not have time for that,” said Crowlacht. “I know why Qazamhor attacked Novindum.”

“For slaves and sacrifices to the blood gods, surely,” said Arandar. 

“I think Qazamhor has a more practical reason,” said Crowlacht. “Tonight only three of the thirteen moons rise.”

Arandar searched his memory, trying to remember the lessons he had learned about the moons while a child. “Yes. Ah…Saginus, the moon of blood, and Nihilus, the moon of the void, if I recall.”

“And Shardus, the moon of souls,” said Crowlacht. “Together they make a light the color of blood. The positions of the moons can affect magical spells, and that particular conjunction happens only once every eighteen months.”

“Then you think Qazamhor has a spell planned for tonight?” said Arandar.

“I know he does,” said Crowlacht. “Among the devil-worshippers of Kothluusk, they call such a conjunction a moon of Mhor. During that conjunction, a powerful shaman can kill his victims in a circle of standing stones and steal their lives, making his magic much stronger.”

Arandar felt his frown deepen. “That’s what this all about, isn’t it? That’s why he took all those captives from Novindum.”

“At first I did not understand why he bothered,” said Crowlacht. “Human women and children are too weak to make useful slaves, and my kindred rarely have a taste for human women. They are too short and skinny.”

“Indeed,” said Arandar. That was more than he had really wanted to know

“It would have been easier to kill the villagers, take a few sacrifices back for the blood gods, and all the plunder they could carry,” said Crowlacht. “Instead they herded the villagers along like cattle…”

“Because Qazamhor wanted to kill them like cattle,” said Arandar.

“And harvest dark magic from them,” said Crowlacht.

“This conjunction, this Mhor’s moon,” said Arandar. “You’re sure it’s tonight?”

“I am certain,” said Crowlacht.

“Then if we do not defeat him tonight,” said Arandar, “Qazamhor will kill them all, and will become much more powerful?”

“He would gain the sort of power,” said Crowlacht, “that would let him unite the tribes of Kothluusk and lead an army against the realm. Come, Decurion. We must discuss matters with our men.”

###

“No, no, no,” said Orlan. “Absolutely not. We dare not do this.”

Arandar grunted as Cassius helped him back into his armor “Why not?”

“We are outnumbered badly,” said Orlan.

“We are not,” said Crowlacht. The headman had first spoken respectfully to the Magistrius, but the respect was wearing away like sand in a windstorm. Orlan had that effect upon people. “They have a hundred and thirty at most. Perhaps a hundred and fifty when their scouts return. We have two hundred and fifty.”

“They have the strong position,” said Orlan. “A wall and a rampart.”

“Ladders can be built easily enough,” said Arandar.

“They have the power of this Qazamhor,” said Orlan.

“We have a Magistrius,” said Crowlacht. “I think.”

Orlan missed the insult. “We must withdraw to Castra Durius and warn Dux Kors. He will send word to the High King and the other lords. We shall need an army, Swordbearers, Magistri, all the strength to the realm to drive back this threat.”

“Threat?” said Crowlacht. “What threat?”

“Qazamhor is going to unite the tribes of Kothluusk and invade the realm,” said Orlan. “We…we have a duty to carry back word, to warn the others…”

“Or,” said Arandar, rolling his shoulders beneath his chain mail and tabard, “we put an end to it tonight. We kill Qazamhor and free the captives. No one unites Kothluusk, and the people of Novindum return to rebuild their homes.”

“Madness,” said Orlan. “Utter madness. You will throw our lives away.”

Crowlacht shrugged. “Death comes to all men, and glory with the Dominus Christus to the faithful.”

“We cannot fight Qazamhor’s dark magic,” said Orlan.

Crowlacht shrugged again. “You are a Magistrius. That is your task.”

“We will be killed!” said Orlan. “You will throw our lives away, Decurion, and for nothing. The life of one Magistrius is worth the lives of a thousand freeholders, and…”

Crowlacht said nothing, but his eyes started to turn red as he looked at Orlan, and the Magistrius took a step back.

“Thank you for your counsel, Magistrius,” said Arandar. “I suggest you see to the men. Perhaps some of them need healing.”

Orlan took the excuse and hastened away.

“Damned Magistri,” muttered Crowlacht. “The young ones are all cowards. I would trade a dozen Magistri for one good Swordbearer.”

“Coward he may be, sir,” said Cassius, “but he does have a point. Qazamhor has a strong position. If we assault his wall, we might win through in the end, but we’ll lose a lot of men. If even one thing goes wrong, we might have to fall back to Castra Durius for aid. Or we’ll die on the shaman’s altar alongside the folk of Novindum.”

“There might be a better way,” said Arandar. He took a deep breath. “Lord headman. When will Qazamhor cast his spell?”

“Likely at midnight,” said Crowlacht. “The Mhorite shamans usually perform their rituals then. There will be chanting and drums and such, the usual mummery demon-worshippers perform for their false gods.”

“Then I shall wait until dark, sneak into the camp,” said Arandar, “and open the gates from within.”

Crowlacht and Cassius looked at each other.

“That is a bold plan, sir,” said Cassius.

“The Mhorites will be focused upon their ceremony,” said Arandar. “I will slip inside and open the gates, and then our men and the Rhaluuskans can storm inside. We shall catch the Mhorites off-guard and overwhelm them before they can bring themselves to order.”

“A bold plan, indeed,” said Crowlacht, “and one that might well fail. What shall we do if you are killed or taken captive?”

“Then you will withdraw to Castra Durius and summon aid from the Dux,” said Arandar. “Orlan is craven, aye, but he is not entirely wrong. We have the superior numbers, but many things could easily go amiss. If we fail here, all Orlan’s fears will come to pass. Qazamhor will slaughter the prisoners and gain the power to unite the tribes of Kothluusk. This way, if I fail, you can withdraw to Castra Durius and prepare the High Kingdom for the storm that is to come.”

“Why you?” said Crowlacht. “Surely you could ask for volunteers. This plan of yours is dangerous.”

“I am the commander,” said Arandar. “I cannot ask the men to do anything I would not do myself.”

“You have other responsibilities as the commander,” said Crowlacht. “I do not deny your bravery. But why throw your life away? Have you no family?”

“I do,” said Arandar. “A wife, in Tarlion. And a son. I will see them again when we are done campaigning for the winter, if the Lord wills it.”

Crowlacht grunted. “This sort of boldness, I would expect it from a young man. A married man with a son? Less likely. If we are to fight together, I wish to know why you would do something so reckless.”

“My blood,” said Arandar.

“Sir?” said Cassius, who knew the truth. “Do you want to say this?”

“My father is a high nobleman within the realm,” said Arandar. That was almost true. The High King was a nobleman, and he was powerful. “My mother was a widowed innkeeper.”

“Ah,” said Crowlacht. “Then the High King gave you a position in his men-at-arms as a favor to your father, yes?”

“No,” said Arandar, though many of the men of Andomhaim believed that. “My father never sent a single copper coin to my mother, refused to even acknowledge that I existed. He admitted it, but never in public. So I had to make my own way in the world. He permitted me to join the men-at-arms of Tarlion, and I have had to fight for everything I have.”

“I will say he speaks it true,” said Cassius. “I have served under many men, and the Decurion is one of the few I trust.”

“So that is why you are doing this?” said Crowlacht. “To prove that you are not simply some nobleman’s privileged bastard?” He shrugged. “Well, there are worse reasons to fight. If you open the gates, we’ll show these Mhorite dogs what it means to challenge the High King, and save the captives while we’re at it. And if you die…I suppose your widow shall have the comfort that you earned your death.”

“Was that a joke?” said Arandar.

“I am not sure,” said Crowlacht. “We shall find out. Meanwhile, we have some preparations to undertake.”

###

Arandar crept up the darkened hillside in silence, making his way by the dim, bloody light of the three moons.

As Crowlacht had predicted, the three moons had indeed come together, painting everything the color of blood. The dim red glow let Arandar pick his way up the slope, stepping over roots and boulders. He had left his shield behind, but kept his armor, the chain links wrapped in bands of dark cloth to hide their gleam. His sword and a pair of daggers hung at his belt, and a small war horn rested next to his sword

Perhaps Crowlacht was right. Perhaps this was reckless, even by the standards of the Rhaluuskan orcs, who loved war as humans simply could not. Arandar thought of his wife and son. He wanted nothing more than to leave Durandis and return to Tarlion, to remain with them.

It was not possible. He was a Decurion in the service of the High King, and he could not ask any of his men to do anything he was not willing to do himself. Arandar might have been the High King’s son, but the High King had given him nothing. He would make his own name, win his own glory, and forge a better life for his wife and son and any other children that would come.

Or he would die trying.

Perhaps it was a form of madness, but if it was madness, it had been one bred into his bones. And if he did this, he could save many lives and avert a far greater war. If this was madness, by God there were worse forms for it to take.

Arandar reached the crest of the hill, dropped to his belly, and stared into the camp.

A half-dozen bonfires blazed around the ring of menhirs, filling the camp with shadows and flickering light. The Mhorite orcs had gathered before the ring. The menhirs themselves pulsed with an eerie, blood-colored glow, the light welling up from deep within the sigils carved upon their surfaces. Qazamhor stood before the menhirs, shaking his staff and preaching in the tongue of the Kothluuskan orcs. His voice was far deeper and more resonant than Arandar would have expected from his gaunt appearance. In their pen the captives moaned and wept, some of them kneeling in prayer.

Evidently they had realized what fate Qazamhor had in store for them.