The Paladin's Tale Page 2

  “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 again
st 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.”

  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…”