Death's Paladin

by Christopher Donahue

  Chenna kissed the back of his hand and pressed his palm against her cheek. He loosened the strap holding Madman across his back and pulled the sheathed weapon over his head. “I need something more powerful to dispel Auros’ fire.” Avoiding contact with the hilt, he shifted his grip on the brass sheath.

  When it became clear that he meant to touch Madman’s hilt to her side, Chenna shifted nearly to beast form and pushed him away. “Kill me with something clean before you bring that thing near me.” She clutched at her side in agony but would not let him come close.

  With a snort of anger, he threw Madman down and drew a milky green orb from his pouch. He approached holding the egg-sized Clouded Eye between his right thumb and forefinger. Again, a spark shot out as he brought the trinket near. The blue fire faded and the Eye crumbled, cold and dead.

  Even with the fire gone, her deadly wound remained. The edges curled. It felt hot to the touch and seeped poison. Voskov drew his dagger and punctured a tight-stretched section of skin near the wound. Ignoring Chenna’s screams, he pressed it until some clean blood trickled out. He dipped the dagger into the fresh flow.

  From a very stark memory, he traced the pattern of Zhumak. Surely there’s enough poison here for the Lord of Corruption. Voskov completed the pattern and backed away quickly. The pain of Zhumak’s attentions guaranteed Chenna would go wild.

  The shapeshifter stiffened and then blurred into beast form. As the spell ran its course, she crawled in circles and clawed at the ground.

  Morishtevar’s hand landed on Voskov’s shoulder. The Demon Lord pulled him away from Chenna’s ordeal.

  The remaining men clustered by Voskov’s horse. The two unarmed Hykori remained on their knees, one man’s hands bound behind his back.

  Morishtevar pointed at the kneeling men. “Durinetav caught these deserters when he came out to bind his wounds.” The injured warrior held his iron-tipped spear between the two men. Tears smeared the white paint that gave the prisoners’ faces a skull-like appearance. “Can you make anything useful out of them, sorcerer?” Morishtevar asked.

  Chenna cried out. Pain and exhaustion left Voskov confused. “I need time and equipment to replace what I’ve used up this morning. No, I can’t use these two now.”

  The Demon Lord nodded to Durinetav and the warrior thrust his spear through the back of each deserter. Morishtevar said, “Then I’ll bring them back as loyal servants.” The Demon Lord drew his long, serpent-hilted dagger and stepped over the fallen men. He pushed up on the visor of Durinetav’s rock-panther helmet, exposing the stunned man’s throat.

  As Morishtevar raised his dagger to strike, Voskov shouted, “What’re you doing?” He grabbed Morishtevar’s dagger arm, between his wrist and the burn.

  The Demon Lord pushed the Hykori warrior away and turned on Voskov. The sorcerer felt his men behind him, tensed for a fight.

  Morishtevar smiled at him. It was not pleasant. With a stab of fear, Voskov let his hand slip into the loose top of his thigh-high riding boots. His fingers curled around the hilt of the bloodstone knife that the Scholar had used to kill a Demon Lord at Raven’s Crag.

  Morishtevar’s eyes glowed, drawing Voskov into their red light. They filled his sight, blocking out everything else and merging into one red sphere. He heard strained breathing behind him, something fell against the back of his legs.

  His muscles remained locked, but he could see around. He forced his arms to move. His hands twitched and slowly he raised his arms to waist height. Morishtevar stepped past him. Even out of sight, the souldrinker’s spell kept Voskov’s muscles from answering to his will.

  The souldrinker pulled Bone to stand before Voskov.

  The man was paralyzed but jerked and rolled his eyes. Morishtevar removed his bat-winged helmet and smiled again. “You do have something to help with the burn your toy caused me.”

  The Demon Lord pressed his hand to Bone’s chest and closed his eyes. With a look of great satisfaction, the souldrinker opened his eyes and drew his hand away from Bone’s chest. A soft, pink mist followed the hand, curled around it and seeped into the skin. After an endless moment, the mist thinned and died away.

  Morishtevar held his largely healed burned arm before Voskov’s face. Energy radiated from the ancient Hykori. He whispered, “I have little use for a general who loses, even less for a sorcerer whose tricks fail. Mallaloriva won’t care if you never return. We only need your Book and some fool to open it for us.” The Demon Lord tilted his head, his eyes focusing away. “Perhaps if we have the Book opened, we could form an alliance with those on the Other Side.”

  He stepped out of Voskov’s sight. The weight pressing against his legs moved away.

  Carrying Redbeard, the Demon Lord returned to his place in front of Voskov. Morishtevar stood the desperately twitching man on top of Bone’s shriveled husk.

  Anger replaced Voskov’s fear. No creature slaughters my men before my eyes. The insult struck his very core. He struggled against the spell, but could do no more than shift his weight and flex his fingers. He slid the small stone knife across his palm for a better grip.

  Morishtevar looked into Voskov’s eyes and he placed his hand on Redbeard’s chest. The man gave out a strangled cry. Voskov tensed in rage. The stone blade pierced his palm and the spell snapped.

  Voskov stepped forward and slashed the bloodstone knife across Morishtevar’s neck. The stunned Demon Lord staggered backward. He clutched his throat but did not vanish.

  Voskov made the rapid hand passes to dispel demons and struck again. Morishtevar deflected the blade, taking a cut across the face. The skin around the second wound parted in a tear that accelerated across the Hykori’s face, down his neck and disappeared beneath his cuirass. The souldrinker cursed and fell motionless.

  Durinetav ran to the fallen Demon Lord and drew his knife. Uncertain, Voskov stepped away. The Hykori warrior sawed at Morishtevar’s neck. When the souldrinker’s body vanished, Durinetav jumped away.

  Ice stood Redbeard up, checking the man’s eyes and then the pulse at his neck. Redbeard now looked like a man in his mid-forties with wide streaks of gray in his beard and hair. Behind them, Chenna had crawled to within a dozen paces of where Voskov had stood frozen. Relief showed on her face.

  Durinetav gathered the reins of Voskov’s horse and led the animal to him.

  Ice knelt, gathering dust from inside Morishtevar’s bell cuirass. “Do we return to the queen or escape?”

  Before Voskov could answer, Durinetav spoke. “We must return to the queen. She must be told that we failed. She must hear of the ambush the Paladins laid and how Morishtevar fell to them.” As he said the last, he locked gazes with Voskov.

  Voskov mounted and had Ice help Chenna up to ride behind him. Finally, he said “Mallaloriva should hear how the Paladins killed her consort. Also, where would we escape to?”

  The man gave a shallow bow.

  Redbeard retrieved Madman. Voskov looped the weapon’s belt around his saddle horn. When he gripped the hilt to hang it properly, a voice in the back of his head hissed, Fool, you play a desperate game. You need me.

  Voskov’s scout led the party due west. They climbed a winding trail through rocky hills and into a low pass in the Demon’s Teeth Mountains. The third day ended with heavy snowfall blocking the way out.

  Voskov woke early on the fourth day. Durinetav, holding late watch, sauntered over to observe Voskov perform the mysterious actions involved in horse care. Neither spoke as sunrise lit the highest peaks of the parallel series of mountains known as the Demon’s Teeth. Twenty miles separated their spot in the pass from the far range. The valley running between the ranges varied little in width.

  Several points of light, each separated by several miles from the next, glittered in the shadow cast by the Demon’s Teeth. A cluster of lights, the queen’s camp, lay at the center. The army is moving fast. Sparse pickings up here.

  Turning in a slow circle, Voskov felt the whole of the world laid out around him. E
ven that foolish Paladin seemed far away. For the first time in years, he could turn so many ways.. I could just ride away. Let Ice take that damned Book to Mallaloriva and let the Paladin follow them into hell.

  He painted a mental image of a highland castle. Perhaps with Chenna at his back and keeping his bed warm while he ruled over some villages. He had enough loot from Raven’s Crag in his saddlebags to buy that dream and take over from a Macmar chieftain.

  Even thinking about the details of doing this bored him. Better to blaze briefly across the world than sink safely into the mud.

  The party descended into the valley and caught up with the army by late afternoon. Voskov rode to the only large tent. Fully recovered from her wound, Chenna trotted at his side.

  All around him, the Hykori were in good spirits. The march and terrain were hard, but bubbling pots or spitted goats hung over every fire. The remnants of the Hykori Empire hadn’t eaten this well in generations. None seemed to suffer from the thinness of the air as Voskov and his horse did.

  The guards at the queen’s tent took his horse and led him in. With an upraised hand, the guard commander halted Chenna outside.

  Mallaloriva sat on a pile of cushions. A map painted on a hide lay before her. She did not look up to see his salute. Only Vishtanatar and a pair of ragged slaves were in the tent with them.

  She gestured with her fan for Voskov to join her. Still not looking away from the map, she pointed to a pass in the Demon’s Teeth, far to the south.

  A slave said, “Yes, Divine One. The Pass of Oblivion is never blocked by snow.” The other slave knelt, shivering in silence.

  Mallaloriva reclined on the cushions. Her pale yellow gown opened in several slits that made the action all the more alluring. Forcing his attention up to her eyes, Voskov repeated his short bow.

  She did not acknowledge the salute. “You come to me once again as a refugee. No loot, no Morishtevar, only a few of the warriors I gave you.” Her face was unreadable.

  In the silence, the two slaves huddled beside each other and pulled a thick wool blanket to share.

  Voskov didn’t waste a glance at Vishtanatar. “True, when Morishtevar died, the undead fell and my band was outnumbered. Had Visht chosen to go with us, the result might have been different.”

  The queen held up her hand to forestall Vishtanatar’s outraged response.

  “We fell into a trap,” Voskov continued. “Two of Auros’ slaves and a large party of soldiers, possibly Temple troopers, waited at the inn. Despite the odds, we killed most of the mortals. Morishtevar slew one of the Paladins with the axe I made for him. I believe he killed Golden Balanar.”

  Vishtanatar let out a startled gasp. The Demon Lord rubbed his left hand with his right one. For the first time, Voskov noticed that Vishtanatar lacked the least finger on his left hand.

  “You’ve met that Paladin, Visht?” The Demon Lord snorted but did not answer. I wonder how long Visht had to live with a burning wound? The thought cheered Voskov despite his peril.

  He turned back to Mallaloriva. “We failed to take the inn. However, eliminating one of Auros’ oldest and most reliable tools is a major gain. That two Paladins and a score of Temple soldiers were sent to trap me―us―means that I timed our departure well. Surely a larger party has been sent against Raven’s Crag, expecting to find you there.” He could still tell nothing of the queen’s thoughts.

  Ignoring Voskov, Mallaloriva spoke to the ragged slaves. “Have supplies waiting for us at the Pass of Oblivion. Have your men assembled there too. Double your efforts at getting me accurate counts of the men available to the major plantations.” After the slaves crawled forward to kiss her satin slippers, she ordered, “Raise your eyes to me.”

  Mallaloriva’s appearance became transcendent beauty. She glowed softly. Voskov’s heart froze as he bathed in her love and radiance. It was all he could do to remain standing. He knew it was her beauty spell pushed to an extreme, but he didn’t want to see through it.

  The glow faded and Voskov’s control returned. The slaves beat their heads on the thick carpets in pure adoration. Mallaloriva stood, smiled and said, “You have both served me well. Which is the most worthy?” The pair cried out their devotion. Each tried to outdo the other in telling the services he had rendered. Finally, she touched the younger and stronger one on the head. “You both have served me well, but Dressic has done so more zealously.” The older man collapsed in on himself as the younger stood beside the queen.

  “No, Shuma,” she snapped at the kneeling man. “Watch Dressic’s reward and strive even harder for me.”

  As Mallaloriva placed her hand on the young man’s chest, a chill unrelated to the thin mountain air shook Voskov. She drew her slightly cupped palm away and pink mist followed. Rather than watch another souldrinker feeding, Voskov looked at the older slave.

  While Mallaloriva completed her act and Dressic fell to the ground, the kneeling slave watched with tears streaming down his cheeks, only deep disappointment in his face. Disappointment that he was not chosen.

  Mallaloriva raised her hand. “You have witnessed me take Dressic into myself. You have worked hard in my service, but more is demanded. Return to your people and see that my commands are carried out.” Still on his knees, the slave backed out of the tent.

  Voskov was speechless. The queen was not. “Only the hardiest rebels and fragments of clans have settled in this valley. They have little and fight desperately for it. Even stripping the valley bare, my army will be hungry by the time we reach the Pass of Oblivion. Shuma will see that the army has food when we arrive.”

  Vishtanatar picked up Dressic’s body and tossed it out the back of the tent. A stench that was strong even in the cold mountain air told Voskov that undead waited outside for the body.

  The queen frowned. “It’s a pity that Bringer can’t raise them once we’ve fed on them. Dressic was strong.” She sighed. “So it is.”

  She tapped her palm with her fan. “Voskov, two months ago I had three consorts. Now only Visht remains.”

  The Demon Lord interrupted, “Yes, my queen. And both loyal Lords fell in battles that Voskov planned and led. He is a deadly threat to us all. And again, he has failed.”

  Bastard! I saved your life at Raven’s Crag.

  She shot the Demon Lord a sidelong glance. “Now, Visht, be fair to Voskov. He failed twice, but at the hands Carranos and now of Auros. You cannot deny that even the most loyal or determined servant can fail against divine intervention.”

  The Demon Lord lapsed into silence, again rubbing his left hand.

  “I appreciate the work you have done, Voskov, to restore my Empire. I had slowly starved myself to preserve my dwindling stock of loyal servants. Your victories have brought me and my people new life.” She glided to his side and slid her icy hand along his right arm. “I need more than one consort. Our kind will have an abundance to feed on while this war lasts. You can become immortal without enslaving yourself to one of the servants of Light. I can make you a new Demon Lord, or perhaps you can become something unique.”

  Stark terror raced through Voskov’s veins. His jaw locked as he struggled to suppress a scream. He trembled with the need to run, even if it cost him his life within seconds.

  Voskov shifted his weight slightly, preparing to make a doomed escape. The back of his thigh brushed the tip of Madman’s scabbard, pressing the hilt against his neck.

  Stand still, you idiot, shouted the voice of the thing lurking inside Madman. She won’t throw away her only sorcerer to gain another souldrinker. She needs you as you are. I need you as you are.

  As if stung, Mallaloriva pulled her hand away from his arm. She eyed him with suspicion and a trace of fear.

  Vishtanatar placed his arm between Voskov and the queen. “No, Malla, this would be a horrible mistake. Voskov is not loyal to you. He does not deserve the gift.”

  Voskov’s terror dropped to a manageable, healthy level of fear. “Visht is partially right. It would be a mistake. When
I tried necromancy, my sorcery failed. I can serve you better with the skills I have now. Perhaps”―he forced himself to continue―“perhaps after we’ve retaken the Plains, I’ll deserve that reward.”

  She smiled and nodded. “Yes, perhaps you are right. I promise when we take the Shushkachevan capital, I will preserve the Imperial clan. You will feed on royalty for your first month as my consort—when you’ve earned the privilege.”

  The queen returned to her cushions. Some of the blood returned to Voskov’s fingers and toes. He clutched his leather cape around him.

  She motioned for Vishtanatar to roll up the map. “Duke Voskov, I expect us to reach the Pass of Oblivion within two months. Work with Visht to make something useful out of the new undead. These Macmar lack the spirit to serve aggressively when called back. Before we reach the Delta, I want you to have a credible field army. I have worshipers waiting in those swamps. Seeing my army beaten by whatever the plantation masters can raise would shake their confidence.” She opened her golden fan with a sharp crack. “I won’t have that.”

  Chapter Eleven

  From astride Vision, Karro looked back at the blazing inn. The thick smoke followed them up the hillside, its bitter odor overwhelming the damp forest scents.

  Beyond the inn, a horse-drawn carts carried the innkeeper and other survivors of the battle toward the Macmar town of Wasp Hill.

  Lady Kestran sat easily on her lastman’s war-trained horse. “Will they be safe all the way back to that town?”

  “Safer than staying at the inn” Karro said. “The innkeeper identified several bandits among the Macmar undead. Voskov or his necromancer are doing a service by sweeping up criminals as well as all the farmers and trappers in the area.” He chuckled a little, recalling the innkeeper’s practical approach. “With all of his customers now in Voskov’s army, our host had no choice but to move to livelier trade.”

  Two recovering warriors rode with the survivors. with them and Kestran’s lastman as protection, the group would reach Wasp Hill within the week, even at the slow pace forced by their injuries.