by Greg Curtis
“Ladies light.”
It was a tiny spell, something Cavutos surely couldn't have expected, and therefore couldn't have prepared for, but as he countered yet another pair of over and under blows from the scimitar his own blade seemed to catch fire with the light of the sun, temporarily blinding his foe. Then, even as he prepared himself to take the counter on his shield as he had fifty times before, Yorik struck cleanly at his other hand holding the scimitar, bringing the great sword directly down upon his steel gauntlet.
The result was everything he wanted as the gauntlet gave way under the impact, while the scimitar went flying free and Cavutos' hand shattered. Best of all in Cavutos' confusion he gave Yorik a second chance to strike. So he cut inside his shield before it could return and struck at his side, just underneath his armpit. It was another perfect blow that cracked his back and front plates where they joined and probably smashed a few ribs even as the paladin went flying in great cartwheels through the air and into the trees bordering the clearing.
Then suddenly it was Cavutos' turn to strike back and even as he landed lightly on his feet he began summoning, something Yorik hadn't realised the Iron Hand could do. But he didn't have time to wonder about his abilities as a horde of oversized golden panthers arrived from out of nowhere to strike at him and Yorik had to duck and dodge their lightning fast attacks even as he started chopping off bits and pieces off them. All the time he knew, his foe was recovering his strength, pulling his armour back together before it fell apart, binding his damaged wrists, and rearming himself. It was a capable summoning, worthy of a true wizard. The Iron Hand had clearly been working on their magic over the years.
Moving perhaps faster and more cleanly than he ever had in his life, Yorik began dancing and leaping over the tops of the panthers, beheading them in their twos and threes and soon, a dozen or more of the great beasts were dead at his feet. But the time he had spent killing them had given Cavutos the time he needed to recover, and he was quickly armed and carrying a shield strapped to his damaged hand to cover the damage done to both it and his armour, and a rapier. He looked angry too, and that rage was surely just going to make him stronger.
A heartbeat later Yorik discovered how right he was as the steel paladin ran at him with such speed as to be almost invisible. He'd used some magic to speed himself up even more than before, and Yorik was barely able to get out of his way as he felt the rapier strike at his other cheek and draw some more blood. He'd been going for his eyes and crippled as he was the steel paladin had still only just missed. That was a worry. The more injured he became it seemed the faster and deadlier he became.
“Vitalis!”
Two could play at that game Yorik decided, and even as he was cart-wheeling out of the way, he cast the spell to grant him even more speed and stamina, and by that stage of the battle he was certain his magic would be stronger than that of his foe. He was right too as he got to his feet and discovered Cavutos running at him in another blinding attack, only to find that he actually seemed slower than he had at the start. It was the work of a heartbeat to bring his great sword down on his other gauntlet clad hand and watch as it too shattered and another sword went flying into the trees followed by its owner as he planted his armoured boot directly in his groin.
This time when the paladin smashed into the trees at the edge of the clearing, he did not drop lightly to the ground. He tumbled and barely kept his feet. Then he stood there, doubled over and in pain. The battle was Yorik's.
“You may cede if you wish.”
Yorik made the offer as was expected. The Iron Hand would not have granted such an offer to an injured and defeated opponent – they always went for the kill. But it was the right thing to do for a paladin of the Order of the Lady.
“Never!” Cavutos screamed it at him as if he'd cursed him with his offer. Perhaps by the rules of their order he had.
“Demon!”
For the first time Yorik heard the panic and despair in the paladin's voice as he cast what was surely his last and his strongest spell. He would have heard more if the steel paladin had realised that that was never a spell to be cast against a paladin of the Order of the Lady. For the moment he heard that word Yorik knew his duty.
“Lady guide me.”
For the first time in this disgraceful bout, Yorik felt clarity of purpose as he called upon the grace and power of the Lady to guide him even as he watched the demon being summoned in front of him. The Lady knew it too even as she possessed him, turned his sword into a blaze of sunlight and fire. It sliced right through the partially forming demon, and then the steel paladin in turn even as he watched his creation being sent back to whatever evil realm it had come from.
Heartbeats later, her work done, the Lady left him and Yorik found himself standing on his feet, his great sword held out straight in front of him and the paladin of the Iron Hand in two bloody, smoking pieces in front of him. He was dead, the demon was gone, unsummoned even before it had fully entered this world, and the battle was over. He felt good and clean, and yet at the same time, saddened by the sight of Cavutos, a paladin who had once been a man, dead at his feet. But at least he was alive, and the party was alive.
“You are defeated.”
He didn't have to say it as he stared at the remains of his foe, but it was expected and to a paladin of the Iron Hand, it was tradition. It was also a signal as out of the woods all around the clearing, and from around the rest of his party as well, people started appearing, soldiers, archers and spellcasters, servants and of course witnesses and recorders. Every challenge met and won or lost had to be recorded. There were also two boys with them, both of whom were by the looks of things, novitiates hoping one day to become the paladins who would better their former master in time and no doubt kill him to prove it. Both of them approached him.
“As is custom what was his is yours slayer of Cavutos.”
They both bowed to him as was considered proper among their Order. The gesture angered him, but more than that it saddened him. Already their lives were ruined. Still, he had to try.
“Do not bow to me children! I am Yorik son of Heric, paladin of the Order of the Lady, and her humble servant only. If you must bow to someone bow to the Lady. In any case I did not slay your master. He killed himself when he foolishly summoned a demon in my presence, and the Lady took his life as was proper. Remember that if nothing else. No demons may walk this world, ever. My Lady does not allow it.”
“What was his is now the property of the Order of the Lady. You may deliver it to them at Hammeral with the exception of his servants and slaves who are now free. The Order does not accept such vile practices.”
Yorik sheathed his sword, letting the anger and the rage subside within him along with a lot of the magic that was still coursing through his flesh, even though he knew he would soon be collapsing with exhaustion.
“And remember this too. Often the greatest strength is in knowing who to follow, who to trust, and who to stand with. The only honour is always in doing what is right. There was no honour in this duel. There was no victory in defeating your master, only survival.”
“Sooner or later all who walk the path of violence will find themselves its victims. Find yourselves another path before this road consumes your souls and your lives both.”
He knew there was probably little point in trying to persuade them from the path they were on. The scars all over their faces and bodies told him they'd already gone too far down it. He couldn't imagine the tortures they'd already endured, but he knew that their wills were already broken, and what remained of the children they had once been was being re-shaped towards violence. Yet he had to try.
With no more than that – there was nothing more to say – he walked back to his party, trying to keep his knees solid though all he really wanted to do was fall to the ground and let the darkness claim him. But that would not have looked good, least of all after what he'd just told the pages, and somehow he made it, and even managed to drag hims
elf into his saddle.
“I could have taken them.”
Myral looked far from happy as he turned to face him, probably because his aid had been rejected, and in a sense he was right. His power was surely such that he could have, had he prepared for the battle. But he hadn't been given the chance. They would never have allowed that.
“Without knowing how many there were? Where they were? How they were all armed? Without at least one of our party being killed or injured Elder? Maybe. But I regret that I could not allow that chance. I could not allow others to be harmed in my stead. And I could not allow this mission to end. This journey must succeed. At least if I was defeated no one else would be harmed and the mission would continue. Besides, he was evil, his order is evil, and perhaps some good has been done here today. Perhaps some have heard my words, have learnt a lesson.”
“Not from your technique. You still held your sword too low at times, you didn't use your overhand strike even once, and you waited too long to strike back with your magic. Your injury is still troubling you?”
Captain Ysabel was suddenly the very tonic Yorik needed for his soul as she critiqued his fight, and despite himself he threw back his head and laughed. It had been too long since he had had something to laugh about. He could have kissed her.
“I'm sure you're right Captain. But for the moment if someone could tie me into my saddle we should get out of here. I would hate to collapse to the ground now and spoil all my good words to those two pages.”
The elves weren't stupid and shortly he found himself being almost crushed by two of her soldiers as they pressed their horses into his and held him upright in the saddle even as they started to ride away as a unit. To any onlookers such as the two novitiates it would surely have looked as though they were simply riding close, congratulating him on his success instead of the truth which was that without them he would have pitched forwards into his mare's neck and then to the ground.
An ignominious end after such a battle. But then the battle itself had been no grander. And then he realised dispiritedly, he'd probably have to spend some more time with the scribes when he returned.
Chapter Seventeen.
Wind Dragon Falls was a wonder to Yorik, and he suspected to most of the elves as well, perhaps even to Myral though he had seen them before.
Named so he had been told long ago for the water that plummeted from the cliffs for the best part of a quarter league, and the wind that gusted all around them sounding like a dragon in full roar, they were a miracle of nature. They entered them from the bottom, coming up through the narrow rift valley of land that divided the great mountain range, tracking the banks of the mighty Wind Dragon River that screamed past them. And every step of the way Yorik found himself looking up at the great torrents of water falling on both sides of them, and smiling. With so much pain, fear and uncertainty in the world, it was good to know that nature could still provide a spectacle far greater than any demon's army of the undead.
They were also a surcease from his pain; both the exhaustion of his flesh as he still recovered from his duel with the paladin of the Iron Hand, and his heart as he coped with the knowledge that he had killed a man like a common cut throat.
As he had said to Cavutos at the outset, there had been no honour in the duel or the killing, and there had been no good in it either. He simply hadn't been given a choice, and despite the fact that the paladin had killed himself when he had summoned a demon and taken the decision out of his hands, Yorik still regretted all that he done to him before that. Had he survived Cavutos would not have had a good life after the battle. No healer could have repaired his shattered hands fully, nor in all likelihood the damage done to his back and shoulder. He would have been a cripple for life and that was down to Yorik. It had not been an honourable battle, and he worried that it would be considered when his trial was finally held.
The elves were also far from happy with it; – with him. Though he had explained the reasons for his accepting the duel, and even for finishing it as he had, they were a naturally peaceful people. The thought of killing one another simply for a contest of arms was an anathema to them, much as it was to him. They still spoke with him. Even Captain Ysabel who despite her words after the battle he suspected saw him as a whole new form of combatant – a dangerous one. But there was a distance between them, one that he could only pray time would lessen. At least she hadn't suggested that he was slow again.
Genivere was distant too, something that pained him more than he could have imagined. She had healed his wounds as best she could, though at least one of the strikes across his face was going to leave a scar that would endure for many years. But then that would at least be something to speak of in the barracks if not brag about. This had not been a victory to boast of. It was something best put behind him. She spoke with him too, politely if distantly, but more often than not she rode apart from him and kept her silence, and he knew he had disappointed her. Her hero had been shown to be less than perfect and that hurt him more than he could admit.
Myral perhaps was more distant still as he rode at the head of the column, speaking few words to anyone and clearly lost in thought most of the time. Whether that was because of him or for what lay ahead, Yorik didn't know. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to ask.
For his part Yorik had kept his own counsel, trying to be polite and understanding where it mattered, and letting the others come to their own conclusions. He had told them the nature of the battle and his reasons for doing what he had done. It was not his place to tell them what they should think about it. Despite the fact that he sometimes wished it was.
The feel of the mist on his face from the falls as the wind sent it swirling all around them, snapped him out of his melancholy though, and for a while he simply enjoyed the sense of life and strength that it brought him. He even doffed his helmet to let it wet the hair on his head and cool his neck and back, the wetness trickling down his back in a rivulet of pleasure. It was a mistake – he knew that – and he would pay for it in the evening when he had to polish and wax his armour all over again as it got wet inside and out. But it felt so good that he didn't care right then. No matter how long he spent in armour, no matter that he'd worn it for so many years that it almost felt like a second skin, it still got too hot.
There was magic here. He could feel it, even if he couldn't quite understand it. But in a way he realised as he felt the mist on his bare skin, the water was alive. Maybe the wind dragon spirit was in more than just the sound of the water and the wind. Maybe it was in the very water that fell so very far to the ground.
Yorik looked at the others to see that they too were revelling in the magical vitality of the falls, letting it sink deep into their bones. In fact even the horses were enjoying it. They were suddenly enervated and trotting as they hadn't since the very first day when they had set off on this journey. They were like a party that returned from a banquet where they had laughed and drunk too much, and the warmth of the wine made them forget their tiredness, but he knew that there was no danger to them from this. If it was dragon magic of some sort, it was of nature. Still, eventually he decided, he had to ask.
“Myral.” He had brought his mare up to trot beside the ancient wizard at the head of the party and for once Myral didn't seem to care.
“This water, the mist, the very land, it is alive, and it affects us all somehow?”
It wasn't much of a question as such things went, but he fancied the wizard understood. He had a look on his face almost like that of a child discovering a whole new joy in life, and he had been here before.
“Of course lad. This is Wind Dragon Falls, and all people, all creatures of the world cannot help but be affected.”
“It is here that long ago, long before men walked upon the lands, the dragons had a great lair. It was here that dragons were born, lived, fought, mated and even died. And it is here that the essence of their souls remains imprinted in the very ground long after they have passed. This is a place
of peace and life, of nature and harmony, of magic and spirit.”
Even as the ancient wizard spoke Yorik could almost see it as it had once been; the mighty dragons soaring in the sky above, the land bursting with life and magic, the very air and water singing with their essence. Myral was right, this was a special place, and yet he did not go far enough. This was a wellspring of life and magic. It was also a place of healing.
“It is truly that.”
They continued up the rift valley for several hours or more, with the noise from the falls so loud that none could speak above them, until Myral finally turned them off the trail and on to a narrow side track. Although “track” was too fine a word for the rock cutting they found themselves on. But it did go where the rift valley trail couldn't. It cut into the cliffs themselves as it led up to the mouth of the falls.
The path was hidden from the rift valley by shrubs and bushes. Whether that was by accident or intent Yorik didn't know, but what he did know was that without the ancient wizard to guide them they would never have found it, especially when parts of the track actually wove their way behind some of the falls themselves. It was an amazing thing, to be travelling up a narrow track with a sheer cliff on one side and a wall of tumbling white water streaming past them on the other and unexpectedly cold as well. The mist that they'd travelled through before was almost like rain as it drenched them all. But still it was something to remember.