The Paladin's Tale Read online

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.

  The Mhorites were all watching Qazamhor. The guards upon the wall were watching the ravine, but looking towards their shaman from time to time. Just as well, since the firelight would ruin their night vision. That meant Arandar could sneak around to the western side of the ravine, make his way down the slope and into the camp, and open the gates.

  Or so he hoped.

  Step by careful step he made his way as Qazamhor continued ranting, the Mhorites roaring their approval. At last he reached the western edge of the ravine. The Mhorites had their backs to him. Arandar supposed the shaman might see him, but he hoped the fire would disrupt Qazamhor’s vision.

  Arandar climbed down the steep slope inch by inch, his fingers digging into the loose earth and scrabbling for purchase against roots and boulders. A steady stream of dirt hissed down the slope, the pebbles rattling against the ground below. Every noise sent a jolt of alarm down his spine, and every second he expected to hear a cry of alarm. Yet Qazamhor’s booming oratory did not falter, and Arandar heard no other shouts. Step by step he descended, until he was nearly two-thirds of the way down.

  Then he felt the slope shift beneath him.

  For an awful instant he feared an avalanche. Then he realized that his boots were shifting beneath him, that his feet were resting against a boulder.

  A boulder that was sliding its way free beneath his weight.

  The noise of its impact would almost certainly draw the notice of every Mhorite in the camp.

  Arandar gritted his teeth, his arms straining, his legs trying to hold
the boulder in place. Qazamhor’s oratory rose to a crescendo, his voice thundering with rage, and Arandar pulled himself up, drawing his legs beneath him. The boulder slid loose from the earth, bounced down the slope, and crashed to the ground at the exact moment the Mhorites shouted their approval. Arandar hung motionless, waiting for the cries of alarm, but the Mhorites kept cheering.

  God had been merciful - the Mhorites' cries had drowned out the crash.

  He scrambled the rest of the way to the ravine and ducked behind a tent. His arms and legs ached from the effort of his descent, and he took a moment to catch his breath. It would be darkly amusing to have survived the climb only for his loud breathing to draw attention.

  At last he swallowed and started moving, trying to keep the tents and crude wooden buildings between him and the gathered Mhorites. He plotted out the map in his head. If he moved behind the captives’ pen, he could make his way to the wall. From there he could open the gate and summon Cassius and Crowlacht.

  Then Arandar would have to hold the gate and remain alive until the men arrived.

  He took a step forward, and a Mhorite orc moved from behind a nearby tent.

  Arandar froze, his hand falling to his sword hilt. Fortunately, the Mhorite hadn’t seen him yet. The orc looked around, his skull tattoo and scarring ghastly in the bloody light of the moons, and then drew a knife from his belt. He slit open one of the tents, pulled aside the torn flap, and slipped inside.

  Arandar stifled a laugh. Every army had its scoundrels, and it seemed the orcs of Kothluusk were no different. This warrior was robbing his comrades while they listened to Qazamhor’s preaching. He hurried forward until he saw the captives’ pen. A pair of Mhorites stood guard around the corner. Arandar paused to consider his course…

  The thief emerged from the back of the tent, holding a sack, and headed towards Arandar.

  He had only a moment to decide. If he turned towards the thief, the Mhorite would sound the alarm. If he tried to get past the guards, they would see him. Arandar dashed forward, gripped the fence, hauled himself up, and rolled into the pen.

  He landed with a grunt, the smells of blood and waste and fear assaulting his nostrils. Around him sat dozens of captives, most with their heads bowed, some curled up on the muddy ground. Nearby stood an old man, the left half of his face covered with a mottled bruise, three women ranging from twenty years to forty standing near him. Their clothes were tattered and covered with grime and blood.

  The old man stared at him, his good eye widening with astonishment. The three women cringed back in fear.

  “For God’s sake,” whispered Arandar, “do not shout.”

  The old man nodded. “Who are you?” The bruises and split lip had left his voice a slurred whisper.

  “I am Arandar of Tarlion,” said Arandar, “a Decurion of men-at-arms in service to the High King of Andomhaim. I have come with armed men to rescue the captives of Novindum.”

  One of the women raised her hands to her mouth, her eyes going wide.

  “Truly?” said the old man. The Mhorites roared again outside the pen. “I had given up hope. Where are the rest of you?”

  “Outside the wall,” hissed Arandar, looking around to see if any of the guards had noticed their conversation. So far Qazamhor’s ranting and the cheers of the Mhorites had drowned out their words. “I have come to open the gate and let my men inside.”

  “That will be difficult,” said the old man. He looked at the horn on Arandar’s belt. “You shall sound a blast when the gate is open, yes? The minute you do, every Mhorite in the camp will try to kill you.”

  “My men are not far,” said Arandar. “They have crept closer under cover of darkness, and the Mhorites are distracted with their ritual. When I sound the horn, I will have to hold the gate for only a few moments.”

  “That is still too long,” said the old man. He thought for a moment. “I will create a distraction while you approach the gate.”

  Arandar frowned. “The guards might kill you.”

  The old man’s bloodied lips stretched in a humorless grin. “They will kill us anyway, but they want to save us for the shaman’s bloody sorcery. Unless we try to escape, they will not kill us. Short of escaping, there are many things we can do to create a distraction.”

  “Thank you,” said Arandar. “What is your name?”

  “Stephen of Novindum.”

  Arandar blinked. “Is your wife named Cora?”

  The old man flinched. “You have news of her?”

  “Aye, we found her as we followed you here,” said Arandar. “She was badly hurt, but our Magistrius was able to heal her.” It was the one useful thing that Orlan had done.

  “God and the Dominus Christus be praised,” said Stephen. “Hurry. The Mhorites will begin their butchery at midnight.”

  “If all goes well,” said Arandar, “we will have decided this one way or another long before midnight.”

  “Go,” said Stephen, pointing at the far end of the pen. “Climb over the fence there. Once you do, wait for the distraction. That will be your chance to open the gate. God be with you, Decurion.”

  “And you, Stephen of Novindum,” said Arandar, and he hurried across the pen. He reached the fence, pulled himself over, and dropped to the other side. He found himself in a shadowy corner between the outer wall and the pen. Ahead of him he saw the glowing edge of one of the dark elven menhirs, and the gate beyond that. He had a clear path to the gate, but unfortunately that path had no cover, and it would only take one Mhorite glancing at the gate to reveal their danger. Arandar waited, calculating the risks. If he ran for the gate now and sounded the horn, could Cassius and Crowlacht arrive in time?

  Then he heard Stephen shouting.

  “Your demons will not save you!” said the old man, his voice cutting into Qazamhor’s tirade. “Your wicked magic will not defend you! Your god is a lie and a devil! The true God will defeat you and bring you low!” The other prisoners started shouting as well. Arandar hoped the captives would not suffer too much for their impudence. Likely Qazamhor would not kill any of them, not when he needed them alive to work his spell.

  Arandar hurried forward, moving as quickly and as quietly as he could manage. The Mhorites were torn between Qazamhor and the prisoners, their attention wavering back and forth. A dozen orcish warriors strode towards the pen, bellowing threats and brandishing weapons. Stephen and the others shouted for a few moments longer, then retreated back into the pen, falling silent as they did so.

  Qazamhor resumed his sermon, and the orcs’ attention turned toward him, though some guards remained to watch the prisoners.

  Arandar darted forward, lifted the bar on the gates, and pulled them open. Despite the rough nature of the camp, whatever carpenter had assembled the gates had done his work well. The doors revolved easily upon their hinges, revealing the darkness of the ravine beyond. Arandar shoved the bar behind the hinges of the left door, jamming it open. Even if he was overwhelmed and killed, it would hinder the Mhorites when they tried to close the gate, perhaps long enough to allow Cassius and the others to storm the camp.

  A cry of alarm went up.

  Arandar had been spotted.

  He snatched the horn from his belt, raised it to his lips, and blew a blast. It was louder, far louder, than he would have expected, and the echoes rebounded from the slopes of the ravine. A stunned silence fell over the camp, and every single Mhorite orc turned to look at him.

  That wasn’t good.

  Arandar returned the horn to his belt and drew his sword, the steel reflecting the light of the bonfires. The Mhorites snarled and drew their own weapons. For a moment they stared at each other, and Arandar wondered why they didn’t attack. Perhaps they were shocked by his boldness. One man standing in their opened gate? Surely he was the harbinger for a larger attack.

  “Kill him!” roared Qazamhor, his deep voice booming over the camp.

  The Mhorites charged in a screaming wave of snarling faces and tattooed red sku
lls, and Arandar took his sword in both hands. He took a quick step back into the arch of the gate itself, which would force the Mhorites to come at him two at a time and shield him from any arrows from the rampart.

  Though he supposed the guards on the rampart could simply climb down the wall and attack him from behind.

  The Mhorites crashed into him, and Arandar had no more time for thought.

  His sword blurred right and left, and two of the Kothluuskan warriors fell dead in the first seconds of the fighting. A sword stabbed towards Arandar’s face, and he jerked back, the blade cutting through the cloth over his armor and bouncing off the links of his chain mail. A Mhorite thrust a spear at him, and Arandar lopped the head off the weapon. Undaunted, the Mhorite raised the shaft and brought it down like a club, and Arandar tried to dodge. The staff bounced off his shoulder with numbing force, his left arm tingling with pain. The blow knocked him off balance long enough for another sword to strike his belly, though the mail stopped the edge of the blade. Arandar bellowed and hacked off the hand of the swordsman who had struck him, blood spurting from the stump. He wheeled and killed another Mhorite, but more of them came at him. There was no way he could hold this position for more than a few moments, and then the Mhorites would close the gate.

  The ground shook beneath his feet, and the guards upon the wall started shouting.

  Arandar realized what was about to happen, and threw himself to the left, his back slapping against the wall. He killed one Mhorite, and then a second, but a half-dozen more closed around him, weapons drawn back for the kill.

  He bared his teeth and raised his sword, daring them to come on.

  An instant later the first of the horsemen burst through the gate. The man-at-arms carried a mace, the red dragon sigil of the High King on his chest shining in the light from the bonfires. The momentum of his steed drove the horse through the ranks of the Mhorites, and the blow of his mace crushed the skull of an orcish warrior. For a moment the Mhorites reeled, and then three more mounted men-at-arms thundered through the gate, weapons rising and falling.