Tales of Mantica:Steps to Deliverance v042219

by Mark Barber

  Now, over a decade later and with his children occupying the core of his entire existence, he had absolutely no interest in heading north to find a missing detachment of soldiers and ascertain that there was indeed no major and imminent threat from the Abyss. That being said, they had in the last day confirmed positive evidence that something was afoot. Three separate encounters on the road with dirty, disheveled farmers and laborers, fleeing south on overloading carts with their families and few possessions. All of them believed there were demons in the hills to the north, sweeping down to drag innocent people off to the fires of the Abyss. Yet none of them had seen a single Abyssal with their own eyes.

  “There,” Lyen alerted the other two riders, “up ahead, another one of them.”

  His mind brought back to the present, Valletto looked ahead on the road and saw a lone horse wandering slowly toward them, saddled but without a rider.

  “It’s just a horse,” Valletto shrugged.

  “No,” Silus said gruffly, “I can sense something else.”

  The aging knight kicked his horse into a fast canter, quickly covering the distance across to the horse. Lyen and Valletto followed up, riding over to see what Silus had detected. As Valletto approached, he saw the rider, slumped forward over the horse’s neck. The animal had an eye catching, sandy colored coat that unfortunately was light enough to highlight the tremendous amount of blood that had leaked from the rider, down the horse’s flank.

  “He’s dead,” Lyen exhaled sadly. “Do we stop to bury him?”

  “She’s not dead,” Silus said sternly as he swung down from his warhorse. “Not yet, at least.”

  Valletto dismounted and rushed over to the rider, grabbing his staff from where he had secured it to his saddlebag. The woman appeared to be in her twenties, of average height and build with brown hair. Her eyes were closed and her clothing, little more than dirty and bloodied rags, marked her out as a peasant; although what a peasant was doing traveling on horseback remained to be seen. Silus pressed a hand against her stomach and Valletto sensed the build up of magical powers, the veteran paladin’s manipulation of the arcane energies ebbing and flowing in strands around the three magic users. Of course, to the two paladins, this was the limit of their mastery of the divinity plains of power; but to Valletto who lived and breathed the arcane, it was a second sight, an ability to see an entire world around him that those without training and ability could not.

  Silus drew power from the streams of arcane around him, perhaps not even aware that that was how he was doing it, and drew them into his very core before pushing them out along one arm and into his fingertips. His hand glowed blue as the energy reached the edge of the knight’s very soul and then shot out of his hand to connect with the dying woman to race its way through her body to search for pain and damage to heal. Valletto had seen it done a thousand times before, but it always brought a smile to his face. It was the perfect demonstration of the arcane, using the gift to help people who needed it. It was what magic was for.

  A breath escaped the woman’s cracked and bloodied lips, and her eyes flickered behind their lids. Lyen stepped over and pressed his hand against her, drawing on the same energies. Valletto sensed the young paladin’s coarser, almost clumsy manipulation of the arcane, but the power and purity of his spirit – the essence of divinity magic – sent another wave of healing energy into the woman. Her eyes half opened.

  “Help me get her down,” Silus commanded, “carefully.”

  The two knights gently carried the woman over to the side of the road and laid her down in the grass. Valletto knelt next to her and took his waterskin from his belt, using it to carefully clean her face and apply some moisture to her lips.

  “Will she die?” Lyen asked quietly.

  “Without proper care, yes, she will,” Silus replied.

  “Then we should take her to somebody who can help,” Valletto decided. “She may be only a peasant in the eyes of most, but a life is a life to me, and our task can wait.”

  “She’s not a peasant, she’s a soldier,” Silus retorted. “She is wearing legion issue boots and her neck is chaffed from poorly fitting armor. Her wound is from fighting; she has been run through with a blade.”

  The woman moaned weakly, a syllable forming on her lips, too quiet to decipher.

  “Save your strength,” Valletto gave her an encouraging smile. “We’ll get help for you.”

  “Abyssals…” the woman whispered weakly.

  “You saw them?” Silus demanded. “Did you see Abyssals yourself?”

  The woman gave a barely perceptible nod.

  Silus looked up at Valletto.

  “There’s the proof the Duma wanted.”

  “Will it be enough?” Lyen asked. “The word of one dying soldier?”

  “How many of them?” Silus leaned in closer to her, his voice more animated. “How many?”

  The woman opened her mouth to speak again, but her eyes lolled back and her eyelids drifted shut again.

  “Give her a chance, man!” Valletto snapped. “We’re not killing this woman to get information!”

  “I saved her life, not you!” Silus growled. “And I know well enough how much she can take! We need to know what we are facing!”

  Valletto sighed and took a step back, turning away from the paladins and the wounded soldier. He had never liked confrontation. Oddly, he had always been able to muster up his courage to face danger from the enemy or the elements, but crossing angry words was something Valletto hated. But the woman needed help, and that should be the priority. Knowing how many Abyssals lay ahead could wait; her life could not. Valletto turned back.

  “The Duma placed me in charge, you are here to protect me,” he said quietly, unable to meet the paladin’s glare. “Now cease your interrogation of this woman. We are going to find help for her.”

  Silus stood up and folded his arms, regarding Valletto in silence. Valletto crouched down next to the woman and brought the waterskin to her lips carefully. She was still too weak to drink much, but she gave him the faintest smile of gratitude.

  “I’m Val, what’s your name?”

  “Constance…” the soldier whispered, “I… I was… Dionne… with them…”

  Valletto looked across at the paladins. Lyen appeared surprised while Silus nodded slowly. Valletto smiled his thanks to the woman and stood again.

  “So that is that,” Valletto said grimly. “Dionne has sided with the forces of the Abyss. Get her back on her horse, please. Take her south, back to the village we passed yesterday afternoon. There was a convent up on the hill there, the sisters are her best chance.”

  “And you?” Silus said.

  “I am going to contact my seniors in the capital and let them know what we have found. Then I’ll carry on north and see what else I can find out.”

  “Alone?” Silus demanded. “In the midst of Abyssals? Without our help?”

  “I can take care of myself,” Valletto smiled uncomfortably. “I’m a battle mage, that means I too am a soldier. Look, this message to the Duma cannot afford to wait. Not a single hour, let alone how long it will take to get back to the village. But her life cannot wait either. She needs to move now, and I need to convey this message now. Both need to happen concurrently, so you need to go.”

  Silus looked over his shoulder at his younger comrade.

  “Do as he says, Lyen. Get her to the sisterhood.”

  “But…”

  “Don’t argue,” the older knight said gently. “I know you came out here to fight the good fight, but that is not your task now. This soldier faced the forces of the Abyss. Do not let her die because you wanted tales of glory to go home with. Get her to help.”

  Chastened, the young knight’s face fell.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Silus turned back to Valletto.

  “Send your message, Valletto. Then we carry on north.”

  ***

  The magistrate was a tall, thin man clothed in black robes wi
th flowing white hair beneath a black, wide brimmed hat; his receding gums giving him an unnerving smile as he drifted over to Tancred in the tavern courtyard. The wind was picking up again, bringing a bitter chill from the north and rustling the long grass in the silent fields around the small village. Tancred’s motley collection of soldiers and supplymen waited in small groups around the courtyard, their hushed conversations fading to nothing as the pale magistrate approached Tancred.

  “You did the right thing, sending for me, Lord Paladin,” the old man smiled, his yellow tinged eyes narrowing as he did so. “’Tis best you leave the unpleasant business of extracting information to those of us who are used to getting our hands dirty in… disagreeable dealings. You save your strength for the battlefield, where you excel.”

  Tancred looked up at the tall magistrate, unsure whether the words were meant as a compliment or a thinly veiled slur. For that matter, he was uncertain whether he found the magistrate helpful or patronizing. The only feeling he was sure of was the unnerving presence of the man, who looked himself as if he were unsure whether to turn to the Abyss or a life of necromancy. But Tancred detected nothing malicious or hostile from him, just an aura of unease that no doubt came with the territory of deciding who lived and died on behalf of the Hegemon’s law.

  “What have your interrogators ascertained, Lord Magistrate?” Tancred asked.

  “Your prisoner was looking for a portal stone,” the thin man grinned. “Fortunately for us, it wasn’t where he thought it would be. His task was to locate it and then guide Dionne and his Abyssal mongrels to it. Then he saw your Dictator-Prefect, the Shining Ones rest his soul, and realized that it was an opportunity too good to miss.”

  Tancred exhaled, walking in a small circle as a thousand thoughts, options, and plans raced through his head. Portal stones came in many sizes, and a lesser variant could be carried by an individual to transport themselves and a small group of accomplices to and from the Abyss. Then there were the static stones; huge boulders set into the very earth at sites of great significance that could be used to bring forth entire armies. It was how the forces of the Abyss were able to reach the far-flung corners of Mantica. But such an endeavor was far from simple. Activating a portal stone required the performance of a very specific ritual that very few knew. The ritual itself also required huge amounts of arcane power, far more than could be mustered from a mere mortal agent of the Abyss.

  “We need to find that portal stone,” Tancred muttered to himself.

  “You no longer intend to head south to raise an army?” the magistrate queried.

  Tancred shook his head.

  “We cannot. There is no time. I need to find that stone and…and…”

  “And what?” the magistrate leaned in closer, his thin lips twisting into an amused smile.

  “I do not know yet!” Tancred snapped. “But I shall think of something!”

  “You cannot move it, you cannot destroy it, you cannot face the force that seeks it,” the magistrate said, “so I think your options are somewhat limited.”

  Tancred turned his back on the gaunt magistrate and waved for Xavier and Jeneveve to approach him. Both paladins quickly made their way over.

  “It is a portal stone,” Tancred said as they approached, “one of the huge ones. It is here, somewhere in this province. The Abyssal forces have twisted Dionne to their will and are using him to lead an advance force to find and activate the portal so that a proper army can come through. An army that could threaten the capital itself.”

  “Well… we have to stop them,” Jeneveve spluttered, her eyes wide open.

  “Then we will need more soldiers,” Xavier offered, “and that means heading south.”

  “It will be too late by then,” Jeneveve folded her arms.

  Tancred looked back to the magistrate.

  “We need soldiers. How many can you place under my command?”

  The magistrate cackled a choked laugh that quickly transformed into a hacking cough. He dabbed at the corner of his thin lips with a handkerchief.

  “My dear Lord Paladin! It is I who approach you for muscle when there is any risk of civil unrest! I do not have soldiers!”

  “Town guards, militia, mercenaries, anything!” Tancred exclaimed. “Good Ones above, man, the nation may depend upon it!”

  The magistrate moved his gaze from paladin to paladin, his eyes lingering on Jeneveve for longer than Tancred was comfortable with.

  “I shall tell you what,” the tall man leered. “You go find the portal stone. While you’re gone, I shall raise the best force I can. I cannot promise much, but I will take manpower away from guarding the main trade routes, and I will hire any mercenaries I can find. The bill for those mercenaries will go to your Order, not the Duma, you understand. I am raising a force under your direction, Lord Paladin, not that of the Hegemon or the Duma. Now, I would suggest you get to work and find this stone. I have an army to raise and a man to hang. Excuse me, please.”

  Tancred watched the magistrate drift back toward the tavern, shuddering as the man left.

  “I shall tell our men that we are going back north,” Xavier said, “with your permission, Lord Paladin?”

  Tancred nodded.

  He looked up at the clear sky, at the thin lines of white cloud sweeping miles up ahead, beyond even where powerful birds of prey could reach. He felt exhausted, disillusioned with the past weeks, part of him aching to go home to the warm south while simultaneously he feared the reaction to his failures from the Order and his father. He shook his head at the thought. His father…

  “Lord Paladin?”

  Tancred looked back at Jeneveve, who stood in front of him, the slightest hint of a smile on her lips seeming at odds with the unease in her eyes.

  “Thank you for bringing the magistrate in. I think it was the right thing to do.”

  Tancred looked down at the cobbled courtyard paving beneath his feet. He had found himself in a small room at the back of the tavern, dagger in hand, the Abyssal traitor tied to a chair in front of him. It was a moment he never wanted to re-live again.

  “I knew the stakes,” he said coolly to Jeneveve, “but I could not do it. With the fate of this part of our nation resting upon our shoulders, with the lives of hundreds if not thousands of women and children depending upon me to act, I could not harm a bound, helpless man. Even though he was a murderer, a traitor, and a consort of demons, I could not bring my blade to him when he was helpless. That is not a strength, Sister Jeneveve. That is a weakness.”

  Jeneveve’s smile became a little warmer.

  “That weakness is what proves you are the man we all hoped you were,” she said quietly, briefly resting a hand on his forearm. “It is why we follow you. Thank you for doing the right thing, Lord Paladin.”

  No happier with the memory of his actions, and all the more uncomfortable with the conversation with Jeneveve, Tancred dismissed the complement with a wave of the hand and strode over to his warhorse to prepare for the ride north.

  ***

  “How sure are you?” Aestelle said seriously, her gloved hands planted on the flat, wooden planks at the back of the cart to either side of the hastily scrawled map.

  Three men stood around her, also leaning over to regard the parchment spread out across the back of the cart – an elderly farmer, a disheveled huntsman, and a short, neat merchant. Behind them was gathered seemingly every survivor from the surrounding miles of farmland and villages who had not fled south. Perhaps thirty men, women, and children of varying trades and backgrounds, all from the less affluent areas of rural Basilean society, had come together at the tavern after hearing about the recovery of the soldier delivered by an Elohi, and the arrival of the woman who had single-handedly slain six demons.

  “I saw nothing there myself,” the little merchant said warily, “but my customers talk. They would have no reason to lie, surely? One of them told me that he had seen Abyssals at Fresh Creek.”

  “I’m not throwing accu
sations around,” the dark haired huntsman said gruffly, “but in times of strife, people can very easily become hysterical. Looking at all the other sightings, it makes no sense that any of these monsters would be near Fresh Creek. It’s too far out of the way of the other attacks.”

  “Not all of them,” the old farmer said. “My brother escaped an attack here, near the old fort at outside Redwall. That’s quite close.”

  Aestelle swore and shook her head, turning away from the map.

  “There’s no pattern to these attacks,” she growled in frustration. “It’s not obvious where they’ve come from or even where they’re going!”

  “Perhaps they’re lost?” the merchant offered timidly. “Perhaps they’re looking for something?”

  “Don’t be ridic…” Aestelle held up a hand to silence the huntsman’s aggressive reply to the neat, little merchant.

  Her eyes widened as the entire conundrum began to make sense.

  “You wonderful, funny looking little man!” she exclaimed, planting a kiss on the merchant’s cheek.

  The merchant let out a high pitched wheeze of glee and looked around at the others, a huge grin plastered across his ruddy face. Aestelle turned and paced up and down in front of the cart, one fist pressed pensively against her lips as she thought through the options open to an Abyssal commander left exposed in the rural plains of northern Basilea. Her thoughts were interrupted as an excited gasp and whispered commotion rippled through the waiting crowd of villagers and farmers by the tavern behind her.