The Paladin's Tale Read online

Cassius and Crowlacht had come.

  Arandar threw himself into the fray, stabbing and slashing as he desperately wished for a shield. So far he had parried and dodged most of the blows aimed his way, but sooner or later a Mhorite blade would find his flesh. Qazamhor screamed commands, and the Mhorites roared and charged towards the gate, pushing the horsemen back. On an open field, horsemen had the advantage. Yet here, in the enclosed space of the camp, the Mhorites could crowd around the men-at-arms and pull them from their saddles.

  A howl rose over the fray. Crowlacht’s warriors darted past the horses’ legs and charged into the battle, striking with their axes and swords. The Mhorites’ momentum wavered, and the sheer weight of armored Rhaluuskan orcs and mounted men drove them back. Arandar glimpsed Crowlacht leading the charge, his huge hammer rising and falling. Arandar cut down a Mhorite that was grappling with a horseman. A little further, and they could…

  The color of the firelight changed, turning from the orange-yellow glow of a normal flame to an unnatural blood color. Qazamhor stood wreathed in bloody flame, his staff shining like a shard of molten metal. The glow within the menhirs pulsed in time to his rage, and the shaman raked his free hand before him. A bolt of blood-colored fire leapt from his hand and slammed into the battle. The magical fire washed over two of the men-at-arms and their horses, and both men and beasts withered into emaciated skeletons. The men collapsed motionless to the ground, while their horses disintegrated into puffs of dust and bone.

  Qazamhor laughed and began another spell.

  Arandar hacked down another Mhorite and forced his way through the press, making his way towards the stone circle. He had to stop Qazamhor. His men and Crowlacht’s warriors might have better numbers and better positioning, but that meant little if Qazamhor could bring his dark magic to bear. Again he wished a Swordbearer had accompanied his men instead of a Magistrius. A soulblade could deal with Qazamhor’s dark magic with ease. Arandar had only his steel and his wits.

  Hopefully that would be enough.

  Arandar reached the circle and crouched behind one of the menhirs. Qazamhor stood a few feet away and thrust his staff, more blood-colored fire bursting from its length. A half-dozen men and orcs, Rhaluuskans and Mhorites both, screamed and crumbled into dusty skeletons. Apparently Qazamhor was not unduly concerned with the lives of his followers. Arandar circled around the base of the menhir, his every muscle tensed. To kill a man from behind was dishonorable, but Qazamhor’s sorcery would decide the battle unless he was stopped.

  Qazamhor raised his staff again, and Arandar sprang forward, driving his blade for the shaman’s back. His sword struck the dark cloth of the shaman’s coat, only to rebound from it in a spray of crimson sparks. Qazamhor had armored himself in a potent warding spell. Arandar caught his balance and raised his sword for another strike, but Qazamhor whirled, his free hand hooked into a claw. Red light washed from his fingers, seized Arandar in invisible bands of force, and flung him against the nearest menhir.

  “What’s this?” said Qazamhor in accented Latin. Arandar struggled against the spell, but the bands of force held him fast. “A rat, sneaking behind my back? No matter.” He pointed his staff at the black altar in the center of the ring, and fingers of snarling crimson lightning danced and writhed against the stone. “Mhor is thirsty for blood, and he repays blood with power. I shall feed your entire realm to him, and he shall make me a living god.” His gaunt face twisted into a hideous smile. “Let us begin.”

  He pointed, and Arandar floated towards the crackling altar. He struggled, but the grip of Qazamhor’s magic remained fast. Arandar did not know what would happen when he touched the glowing altar, but he suspected it would not be pleasant. He redoubled his struggles, his boots kicking uselessly at the empty air, and Qazamhor laughed long and loud.

  “For God and the High King!”

  A group of Rhaluuskan orcs charged at the menhirs, Crowlacht at their head. Qazamhor turned and loosed a blast of bloody flame, and the orcs scattered to avoid the spell. The flames struck one of the orcs, withering him to an ancient corpse. Yet as it did, the bonds holding Arandar weakened as Qazamhor turned his concentration towards the new danger.

  With a great effort of will, Arandar ripped free and slammed into Qazamhor. His sword bounced off the shaman’s wards once again, but Arandar’s attack drove the gaunt shaman back. Qazamhor fell backward with an enraged howl, stumbled over the hem of his coat, and lost his balance.

  He landed right upon the glowing altar.

  The lightning coiled up and sank into his flesh, and Qazamhor screamed, his eyes opening wide with pain. The stench of burning meat filled Arandar’s nostrils, and he stepped back as Qazamhor thrashed and moaned. The shaman’s clothes took fire, the lightning blazing brighter, and Qazamhor screamed once more.

  Then the lightning winked out, and the shaman’s burned corpse collapsed to the ground.

  His dark magic, at the end, had not been enough to save him.

  Arandar stared at the smoking corpse, stunned.

  “Ha!” Crowlacht’s booming voice cut into his surprise. The headman stepped into the ring, his armor clanking. “You have survived, yes? A fine stratagem. A bold one. But there is still fighting to be done! These Mhorite dogs have lost heart, now that their shaman is dead.”

  Arandar nodded, lifted his sword, and joined the fray.

  ###

  A week later Arandar knelt before the dais in the great hall of Castra Durius. People filled the hall – the men-at-arms he had brought from Tarlion, Crowlacht’s warriors, the survivors of Novindum. Stephen and Cora stood with their daughters, watching the ceremony.

  “By my right as Dux of Durandis,” said Kors Durius, his rough voice booming. The Dux was a huge man, his face encircled with a shaggy gray beard. “I dub you Sir Arandar of Tarlion, a knight of the realm.” He tapped Arandar on either shoulder with his sword. “Now rise, and let’s all get drunk.”

  Cassius helped Arandar to rise, his formal armor clanking, and both men bowed to the Dux. Cheers and applause echoed through the hall.

  The survivors of Novindum cheered the loudest of all.

  Perhaps Orlan had been right, and Arandar had saved these people for the wrong reason. But they had been spared from Qazamhor’s altar. More, Arandar had done it through steel and courage and the help of God, through the valor of his men-at-arms and Crowlacht’s ferocity. The blood of the High King had not been able to help.

  Sir Arandar of Tarlion, knight of the realm of Andomhaim, might have been the High King’s bastard son, but he was still his own man.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading THE PALADIN'S TALE. If you liked the story, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page. Turn the page for a bonus chapter from the first book in the FROSTBORN series, Frostborn: The Gray Knight.

  Bonus Chapter from FROSTBORN: THE GRAY KNIGHT

  A letter to the surviving kings, counts, and knights of Britain:

  I am Malahan Pendragon, the bastard son of Mordred, himself the bastard son of Arthur Pendragon, the High King of all Britain.

  You know the grievous disasters that have befallen our fair isle. My father betrayed my grandfather, and perished upon the bloody field of Camlann, alongside many of the mightiest knights and kings of Britain. Before that came the war of Sir Lancelot’s treachery and the High Queen’s adultery, a war that slew many noble and valiant knights.

  Now there is no High King in Britain, Camelot lies waste, and the pagan Saxons ravage our shores. Every day the Saxons advance further and further, laying waste to our fields and flocks, butchering our fighting men, making slaves of our womenfolk, and desecrating holy churches and monasteries. Soon all of Britain shall lie under their tyranny, just as the barbarians overthrew the Emperor of Rome.

  My lords, I write not to claim the High Kingship of Britain – for Britain is lost to the Saxons – but
to offer hope. My grandfather the High King is slain, and his true heir Galahad fell seeking the grail, so therefore this burden has fallen to me, for there is no one else to bear it.

  Britain is lost, but we may yet escape with our lives.

  For I have spoken with the last Keepers of Avalon, and by their secret arts they have fashioned a gate wrought of magic leading to a far distant realm beyond the circles of this world, certainly beyond the reach of the heathen Saxons. Here we may settle anew, and build homes and lives free from the specter of war.

  I urge you to gather all your people, and join me at the stronghold of Caerleon. We shall celebrate the feast of Easter one final time, and then march to the plain of Salisbury, to the standing stones raised by the wizard Merlin.

  The gate awaits, and from there we shall march to a new home.

  Sealed in the name of Malahan Pendragon, in the Year of Our Lord 538.

  ###

  The day it all began, the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when the blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban returned to the town of Dun Licinia.

  He gazed at the town huddled behind its walls of gray stone, his left hand gripped tight around a long wooden staff. He had not been here in over five years, not since the great battle against Mhalek and his horde of orcs, and then Dun Licinia had been little more than a square keep ringed by a wooden wall, an outpost named in honor of the Dux of the Northerland.

  Now it was a prosperous town of four thousand people, fortified by a wall of stone. Ridmark saw the towers of a small keep within the town, alongside the twin bell towers of a stone church and the round tower of a Magistrius. Cultivated fields and pastures ringed the town on three sides, and the River Marcaine flowed south past its western wall, making its way through the wooded hills of the Northerland to the River Moradel in the south.

  Ridmark’s father had always said there was good mining and logging to be had on the edges of the Northerland, if men were bold enough to live within reach of the orc tribes and dark creatures that lurked in the Wilderland.

  And in the shadow of the black mountain that rose behind Ridmark.

  He walked for the town’s northern gate, swinging his staff in his left hand, his gray cloak hanging loose around him. When he had last stood in this valley, the slain orcs of Mhalek’s horde had carpeted the ground as far as he could see, the stench of blood and death filling his nostrils. It pleased him to see that something had grown here, a place of prosperity and plenty.

  Perhaps no one would recognize him.

  Freeholders and the freeholders’ sons toiled in the fields, breaking up the soil in preparation for the spring planting. The men cast him wary looks, looks that lingered long after he had passed. He could not blame them. A man wrapped in a gray cloak and hood, a wooden staff in his left hand and a bow slung over his shoulder, made for a dangerous-looking figure.

  Especially since he kept his hood up.

  But if he kept his hood up, they would not see the brand that marred the left side of his face.

  He came to Dun Licinia’s northern gate. The wall itself stood fifteen feet high, and two octagonal towers of thirty feet stood on either side of the gate itself. A pair of men-at-arms in chain mail stood at the gate, keeping watch on the road and the wooded hills ringing the valley. He recognized the colors upon their tabards. They belonged to Sir Joram Agramore, a knight Ridmark had known. They had been friends, once.

  Before Mhalek and his horde.

  “Hold,” said one of the men-at-arms, a middle-aged man with the hard-bitten look of a veteran. “State your business.”

  Ridmark met the man’s gaze. “I wish to enter the town, purchase supplies, and depart before sundown.”

  “Aye?” said the man-at-arms, eyes narrowing. “Sleep in the hills, do you?”

  “I do,” said Ridmark. “It’s comfortable, if you know how.”

  “Who are you, then?” said the man-at-arms. He jerked his head at the other soldier, and the man disappeared into the gatehouse. “Robber? Outlaw?”

  “Perhaps I’m an anchorite,” said Ridmark.

  The man-at-arms snorted. “Holy hermits don’t carry weapons. They trust in the Dominus Christus to protect them from harm. You look like the sort to place his trust in steel.”

  He wasn’t wrong about that.

  Ridmark spread his arms. “Upon my oath, I simply wish to purchase supplies and leave without causing any harm. I will swear this upon the name of God and whatever saints you wish to invoke.”

  Three more men-at-arms emerged from the gatehouse.

  “What’s your name?” said the first man-at-arms.

  “Some call me the Gray Knight,” said Ridmark.

  The first man frowned, but the youngest of the men-at-arms stepped forward.

  “I’ve heard of you!” said the younger man. “When my mother journeyed south on pilgrimage to Tarlion, beastmen attacked her caravan. You drove them off! I…”

  “Hold,” said the first man, scowling. “Show your face. Honest men have no reason to hide their faces.”

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. He would not lie. Not even about this.

  He drew back his cowl, exposing the brand of the broken sword upon his left cheek and jaw.

  A ripple of surprise went through the men.

  “You’re…” said the first man. He lifted his spear. “What is your name?”

  “My name,” said Ridmark, “is Ridmark Arban.”

  The men-at-arms looked at each other, and Ridmark rebuked himself. Coming here had been foolish. Better to have purchased supplies from the outlying farms or a smaller village, rather than coming to Dun Licinia.

  But he had not expected the town to grow so large.

  “Ridmark Arban,” said the older man-at-arms. He looked at one of the other men. “You. Go to the castle, and find Sir Joram.” One of the men ran off, chain mail flashing in the sunlight.

  “Are you arresting me?” said Ridmark. Perhaps it would be better to simply leave.

  The first man opened his mouth again, closed it.

  “You think he made the friar disappear?” said the younger man, the one who had mentioned his mother. “But he’s the Gray Knight! They…”

  “The Gray Knight is a legend,” said the first man, “and you, Sir…” He scowled and started over. “And you, Ridmark Arban, should speak with Sir Joram. That is that.”

  “So be it,” said Ridmark.

  A dark thought flitted across his mind. If he attacked them, he might well overpower them. Their comrades would pursue him. Perhaps they would kill him.

  And he could rest at last…

  Ridmark shook off the notion and waited.

  A short time later two men approached and spoke in low voices to the first man-at-arms.

  “You will accompany us,” he said.

  Ridmark nodded and walked through the gates of Dun Licinia, the men-at-arms escorting him.

  ###

  Calliande opened her eyes.

  She saw nothing but utter blackness, felt nothing but the cold stone beneath her back, its chill soaking through her robes. She took a deep breath, her throat and tongue dry and rough. Something soft and clinging covered her face and throat, and she tried to pull it off. But her shaking hands would not obey, and only after five tries did she reach her face, her fingers brushing her cheek and jaw.

  She could not see anything in the blackness, but she recognized the feeling of the delicate threads she plucked from her face.

  Cobwebs. She was pulling cobwebs from her jaw.

  A wave of terrible exhaustion went through her, and a deeper darkness swallowed Calliande.

  ###

  Dreams danced across her mind like foam driven across a raging sea.

  She saw herself arguing with men in white robes, their voices raised in anger, their faces blurring into mist whenever she tried to look at them.

  A great battle, tens of thousands of armored men striving against a massive horde of blue-skinned orcs, great hal
f-human, half-spider devils on their flanks, packs of beastmen savaging the knights in their armor. Tall, gaunt figures in pale armor led the horde, their eyes burning with blue flame, glittering swords in their hands.

  The sight of them filled her with terror, with certainty that they would devour the world.

  “It is the only way,” she heard herself tell the men in white robes, their faces dissolving into mist as she tried to remember their names. “This is the only way. I have to do this. Otherwise it will be forgotten, and it will all happen again. And we might not be able to stop him next time.”

  She heard the distant sound of dry, mocking laughter.

  A thunderous noise filled her ears, the sound of a slab of stone slamming over the entrance to a tomb.

  “It is the only way,” Calliande told the men in white robes.

  “Is it?”

  A shadow stood in their midst, long and dark and cold, utterly cold.

  “You,” whispered Calliande.

  “Little girl,” whispered the shadow. “Little child, presuming to wield power you cannot understand. I am older than you. I am older than this world. I made the high elves dance long before your pathetic kindred ever crawled across the hills.” The shadow drew closer, devouring the men in the white robes. “You don’t know who I truly am. For if you did…you would run. You would run screaming. Or you would fall on your knees and worship me.”

  “No,” said Calliande. “I stopped you once before.”

  “You did,” said the shadow. “But I have been stopped many times. Never defeated. I always return. And in your pride and folly, you have ensured that I shall be victorious.”

  The shadow filled everything, and Calliande sank into darkness.

  ###

  Her eyes shot open with a gasp, the cobwebs dancing around her lips, her heart hammering against her ribs. Again a violent spasm went through her limbs, her muscles trembling, her head pulsing with pain.

  Bit by bit Calliande realized that she was ravenous, that her throat was parched with thirst.