Paladin's Prize

by Gaelen Foley

  These guest chambers could only be reached by the spindly, winding walkways that wove and spiraled along the walls, like paths made by insects. They looked treacherous. The place was treacherous as far as he was concerned—a sticky-sweet trap. No windows let in natural light. Instead, by the intimate glow of candles, it was impossible to tell if it was night or day. There were powerful drugs and powders on offer, potions and wine, baths and music, whips and bindings and perverse toys, and many other things to make men mindless and weak.

  One of the wild-haired, kohl-eyed priestesses prowled toward him from across the open space, wearing nothing but a few strands of beads, a couple of ribbons, and strange, tall, complicated boots. “Welcome—”

  “Don’t bother,” he interrupted, holding up his hand to keep her at arm’s length. “Where are they?”

  “Excuse me?” Her empty eyes flickered with wounded vanity at the slight.

  “I’m here to collect the knights of Veraidel.”

  A sudden gasp of recognition escaped her. “Paladin!”

  She bit her rouged lip on a giddy grin as her smoldering gaze ran over him. Her pink animal tongue licked out. Toying with her beads, she moved closer and reached out a languid hand to finger his coat. “I knew someday if we were patient you would finally come for a taste—”

  “Forget it.” He brushed her off and walked past her. “I’ll find them myself.”

  She made a sound of indignation behind him. “You cannot bring those weapons in here! It’s not allowed!”

  “Try to stop me,” he muttered under his breath, then went in search of his colleagues.

  They weren’t hard to find. All he had to do once he gained the back hallway was follow the sound of hearty, drunken laughter.

  And the groaning.

  Thaydor could hardly stomach what he saw when he arrived at the entrance of a large, shadowy chamber. Draped panels of transparent silk lightly partitioned the sections of the room, separating sets of low couches, where twenty or thirty naked fools of his acquaintance were engaged in all manner of lewd acts with women they didn’t know.

  Some were using riding crops and shackles. Some were using oil. Some were using objects Thaydor didn’t even know the names of.

  He scanned the room in shock.

  Three of his best fighters were laughing lustfully, watching Berold bend some intoxicated harlot over a couch, taking her from behind while he lightly choked her throat.

  Thaydor’s stomach turned at the spectacle they were making of themselves. He looked away. Pulse pounding in confusion, he almost walked out, too ashamed on their behalf to speak to them.

  It seemed the knights of Veraidel had indeed abandoned the old ways and taken to heart the new religion of the self. The lusts of the flesh, the pride of the will.

  They were too absorbed in their pleasures to even notice him standing there, but for his part, what he saw made him sad. He’d had no idea that his friends were such weak men. So easily deceived. The bloody bard had been right all this time. His hot-blooded warriors were fools. How could they not realize they had been sent here merely to distract them from what was really going on?

  This place was not a beehive, it was a spider’s web, and his friends were caught like so many idiotic flies. He glanced at them again in searing disgust.

  Most appeared to be enjoying their dishonor as the venomous spider women sucked them dry. He could feel rage building in his veins. And he began to understand more deeply why the king—or Lord Eudo—had wanted him banished from the city.

  He couldn’t believe how far his men had fallen away from the code without him there. They would never have dared act this way if he’d been on hand to watch them, rein them in, and bring down the hammer when the occasion called.

  Indeed, it pained him to wonder if this was partly his fault somehow. Damn it, some of these men had good and decent wives at home. Children…

  He tamped down his fury, well aware they were likely just following the king’s new, scandalous example. To hell with this. Their marital infidelity was their own business, but their dereliction of duty was his.

  As their former captain, he was seriously displeased, yet what could he possibly say?

  Caught like this, faced head-on with their shame, they would never listen. They would only defend their actions and retaliate. Blind fools.

  No words could wake them from their carnal dreamland. But perhaps the power of the Light could make them open their eyes and see.

  Thaydor drew his sword, closed his eyes, and lifted the blade skyward as he bowed his head. Sinking down on one knee, he humbled himself with his head down, tapping into the might of the just, all-seeing god who daily made him strong, so long as he was obedient. The god who had tasked him with the terrifying mission of standing in the gap to uphold law and order.

  But he couldn’t do it alone.

  He slowed his breath, in and out, and felt the gathering rush of righteous anger filling his offered blade with crackling energy. His every nerve ending began to tingle and thrum with the divine strength that he usually saved only for the enemies of Ilios. Letting out a sudden wrathful roar, he slammed the lightning-touched blade of Hallowsmite into the brothel floor.

  It thundered as it struck. The ground shook. The women shrieked. The wave of power flowed outward in a circle from around him and knocked the wicked off their feet.

  Thaydor rose slowly, glaring at his stunned men as their midday orgy came to an abrupt halt.

  “Oh, no,” he said in icy rebuke. “Don’t stop on my account.”

  Their eyes widened with shock and with shame when they saw him, jarred back to reality.

  Faces paled. Heads hung.

  Erections wilted.

  “So this is why you could not come to my aid when I sent for reinforcements to drive the Urmugoths from Mistwood.”

  “We wanted to,” Sagard answered from the back of the room. “We were told to stand down.”

  “I’ll bet you were,” Thaydor said in a quiet, murderous tone.

  “Uh, sir?” one of the others spoke up, somewhat covering himself with the nearest drape. “W-what are you doing here?”

  “Put your damned clothes on,” Thaydor ordered in a steely tone. “The kingdom is in danger.”

  Silence hung over the shame-faced revelers. They began to disentangle themselves, avoiding one another’s eyes.

  He trusted he had made his point.

  Sheathing his sword, Thaydor turned away to give them a moment’s privacy, only to find his wife tearing down the corridor toward him from the direction of the entrance hall.

  “Are you all right?” she cried, looking frantic. “What happened?” Hood down, her cloak flowed out behind her. She had her crossbow in hand. “We heard the concussion wave from Hallowsmite—”

  “Wrynne, you should not be here. I’m fine. I told you both to wait outside.” He glanced at Jonty in annoyance as he strode in a few steps behind her.

  The bard held up his hands. “Sorry, I couldn’t hold her back. Did you find the knights?”

  Thaydor snorted in disgust and nodded over his shoulder. “They’re in there.”

  When Wrynne glanced past him curiously, he stopped her from going any farther. “You don’t need to see this. Go back outside and wait for me.”

  Her brow furrowed with a hint of stubborn protest, but he rested his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her around.

  Before he released her, though, he froze.

  Reynulf was marching down the hallway straight toward them.

  Thaydor thrust Wrynne into Jonty’s waiting arms. “Get her out of here.”

  “I’m not leaving you!” she cried.

  “Oh, let her stay! By all means,” Reynulf said with a cold smile, sword in hand. “Then she can watch you die.”

  Chapter 13

  The Red Knight

  “Don’t make threats you can’t keep, Reynulf.”

  “Not a threat, old friend, but a promise.”

  “And
we all know what your word is worth.”

  Wrynne’s heart was in her throat as she and Jonty backed up against the wall, while Thaydor and the assassin from her nightmare circled each other, swords drawn.

  “No killing in this place. The goddess forbids it!” the half-naked priestess insisted.

  “Why, look, Thaydor. Seems your luck holds. Saved by a woman once again.” Reynulf’s glance flicked darkly to Wrynne.

  She scowled at him.

  “You cannot have weapons in here!” the priestess insisted.

  Jonty snorted. “Darling, do you really think the Paladin of Ilios and the Bloodletter of Xoltheus needs blades to kill each other?”

  The priestess looked at the bard in dismay, then gave up and backed off to a safer distance.

  Meanwhile, the knights in the large room that Wrynne could now see from her current position were hurriedly getting dressed, barely able to take their eyes off the gathering duel.

  Their women seemed crestfallen at being cast aside, but the knights clearly couldn’t care less.

  Reynulf drew a dagger with his left hand as they continued circling, sizing each other up. “I see you’ve brought your little witch with you. And the bigmouthed bard. Interesting company you’re keeping these days.”

  “I could say the same for you. I killed your Urmugoth friends, by the way. I hope you’re not too disappointed.” Thaydor drew a dagger as well.

  Reynulf laughed. “Ah, Thaydor, I’ve missed you! What are you here to do, exactly? Recruit an army or merely save their souls? Can I be honest?”

  “Can you?”

  “It’s been a relief to be rid of you, the pageboy of Ilios, and all your tedious rules. Ask the men. Under my leadership, they finally get to enjoy the rewards they deserve for their service.”

  “Ah, leadership. Is that what you call this?”

  “What, you disapprove? There’s a shock. But it makes no difference. Judge us as you please. You’re a relic, Thaydor. Sorry to say the world has moved on without you and your god. You’re the past; I’m the future.”

  “No, Reynulf, you’re a traitor. And you know it.”

  His face hardened. “Seize him. Sir Thaydor Clarenbeld, you are under arrest for the murder of the sentries on the North Gate.”

  The knights just stood there.

  “What the hell are you waiting for?” Reynulf barked. “I said seize him!”

  None of them moved.

  They glanced uncertainly from Reynulf to Thaydor and back again. No one said a word, but doubt was written on their faces.

  It seemed that being in Thaydor’s presence again was all it took to make them to finally question what they were being told. No wonder Lord Eudo had wanted to get rid of him. When it came down to it, he was the one they trusted. Reynulf clearly did not command the same sense of certainty.

  He turned to them in outrage. “What is this insubordination?” he uttered in fury. “Sons of bitches, I’ll have the lot of you drawn and quartered! I said move!”

  “I have a better idea,” Thaydor said. “Why don’t you try telling them the truth about who really let the Urms in the gate? My only question is why, Reynulf? What did Lord Eudo promise you in return? Surely you did not send all those innocent people to the slaughter just so you could gain the role of royal champion. Because if you wanted it so badly, you should’ve trained a little harder. Then maybe someday, you might’ve bested me in the joust. Though, personally, I doubt it,” he added with a taunting little smile, as though he were deliberately trying to push the Bloodletter over the edge.

  It worked.

  Reynulf loosed his rage and flew at him, driving Thaydor back a few steps with an onslaught of savage blows. The harlots shrieked and fled to the edges of the salon where the bleary-eyed knights hurried to finish dressing, barely taking their eyes off the two top warriors.

  The corridor rang with a deafening clash of swords the likes of which had surely never been heard within the walls of the Beehive before. Jonty pulled Wrynne farther down the hallway, out of harm’s way, but her stare was glued to Thaydor, fear coursing through her.

  As Reynulf swung his blade at the level of her husband’s head, she wanted to bury her face in the bard’s shoulder, unable to watch, yet she couldn’t look away. It was the first time she had ever really seen Thaydor fight in earnest, let alone against that rare enemy with whom he was evenly matched.

  Back in Toad Hollow, fending off the royal foot soldiers, he had gone out of his way not to kill anybody. And though he had battled full force against the Urmugoths, Wrynne had only seen the aftermath of that melee.

  As they hacked and slashed their way back and forth across the narrow confines of the corridor, Thaydor’s eyes had darkened to a bluish black with a furious intensity. His powerful body bristled with sinewy grace, loose and ready, and yet tightly coiled, fully controlled.

  Honed expertise flashed in the angle of his blade and made every step surefooted as he pressed his attack. He did not take his eyes off Reynulf, anticipating his longtime rival’s every move. When the Bloodletter took another hacking blow at Thaydor’s head, Wrynne ducked, biting back a shriek.

  With Thaydor’s parry, the tip of Hallowsmite nicked the wall a few feet away with a ringing sound and a brief trail of sparks. Reynulf attacked again and again with vicious persistence. Thaydor parried every thrust, making it look easy.

  They were too well matched.

  Both warriors quickly grew frustrated, because neither could gain any real advantage over the other.

  “This is pointless!” Thaydor finally spat. “We should be fighting them, not each other! Don’t you understand what’s going on? You’re being used, you fool! You know you’re in the wrong.”

  “Go to hell.” The red knight stood, panting, his muscled chest heaving, his eyes black and fiery as burning coals.

  “Join us, Reynulf. You can still help us put things to rights.”

  “And go back to taking orders from you?” he exclaimed with a defiant scoff. “I don’t bloody think so, you pompous pain in the arse! I’m in control now. You just can’t stand seeing me win, can you?”

  “You may be the champion right now, but it won’t last. The king has turned, Reynulf. He betrayed me; he’ll betray you. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Ow!”

  Suddenly, both men reflexively dropped their swords and daggers as if they had been burned.

  “Damn it!” Thaydor cursed.

  “What the hell?” Reynulf demanded.

  Wrynne saw the priestess holding up her hands and realized the woman had been murmuring a spell under her breath. It had apparently turned the hilts of their weapons searing hot.

  Jonty and Wrynne exchanged a glance, impressed.

  But that did not stop the two warriors from fighting. They both looked at the priestess in reproach for interfering, then exchanged a scowl, kicked their blades aside, and charged each other, resuming the brawl with their fists.

  Wrynne winced as Reynulf laid a crashing punch on her husband’s jaw that sent him reeling. But she needn’t have feared, for a few seconds later, Thaydor had wound an arm around Reynulf’s throat in a brutal wrestling hold and was arching him back like a bow.

  “I know it was you who opened the North Gates,” he ground out, overpowering his opponent. “Tell them! You owe them that much, at least. Tell the men the truth, or I’ll break your bloody neck.” He wrenched him for good measure, but Reynulf, red-faced and grimacing, laughed at the pain.

  “You think I’m ashamed of it?” he retorted with a wince. “Not at all! I’m proud of what I’ve done. For the glory of Xoltheus!” Reynulf grabbed Thaydor around the back of the neck and flipped him over his head.

  Thaydor’s back slammed against the floor, and he gave an angry grunt. He immediately leaped to his feet, but Reynulf had already swept backward a few steps, grabbed his cast-off dagger, and held it to the throat of the priestess.

  He began backi
ng away, dragging his hostage with him.

  Thaydor paused uncertainly. Wrynne watched, riveted.

  “Careful, Paladin,” Reynulf taunted, breathing hard. “You don’t want an innocent to die needlessly, now, do you? Well, innocent is probably the wrong word.”

  “Let her go.”

  “I think she’s earned her place in Fonja’s heaven after all the cocks she’s sucked so dutifully down here, don’t you? Of course, if I cut this pretty throat of hers, your witch could simply heal her, I suppose. Still, it buys me time to seal the city. His Majesty wouldn’t want you to flee from his hospitality.”

  “Reynulf, please,” the priestess whimpered, clutching the thick forearm that held her fast as the red knight dragged her slowly backward. “We’ve shared a bed. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  Thaydor apparently decided at that moment that Reynulf was bluffing.

  “You always had a soft spot for a beautiful woman,” he chided. “How many times did I warn you an enemy would take advantage of it one day?”

  “Thaydor!” Wrynne insisted, at the same time Jonty shouted, “Don’t goad him, he’ll kill her!”

  “No, he won’t,” Thaydor said.

  The woman whimpered, but Reynulf’s midnight eyes had narrowed with fury—apparently at being exposed for having some vague shadow of a soft side.

  He clutched his hostage by her hair and shoved her at Thaydor when he lunged at him. Thaydor caught the woman as she stumbled into him.

  Reynulf ran. Thaydor set her aside, but she fell anyway on her ridiculous spiked heels and landed in a sobbing heap.

  Thaydor chased Reynulf out of the building.

  Jonty let out a breath and strode over to help the woman up as Wrynne peered into the hallway down which her husband had raced off and disappeared, but there was no point in following. Gathering her wits as best she could, she swallowed her distaste toward the temple prostitute and went over to see if she could be of help. After all, the woman was still rather hysterical and had turned an ankle, as well.