Paladin

by Sally Slater

  “That boy is no trainee,” Fenric said conspiratorially. “He’s a demon.”

  Sam snorted. “Are you addled? A demon? Here? In the Paladins’ backyard?”

  Fenric’s face darkened. “I saw him—it—up close. It isn’t human.”

  She stole a glance back at the boy Fenric had branded a demon. From her vantage point, he seemed human enough, though the distance obscured his features. “He doesn’t look like a demon,” she said, frowning. “And if he were, don’t you think the Paladins would have done something?”

  “Maybe they’re testing us.”

  “Maybe,” Sam said skeptically. She felt a twinge of pity for the silver-haired boy. “I appreciate your warning.” She sketched a carefully practiced bow and excused herself from Fenric’s presence. She felt his eyes on her as she walked away.

  Boys continued to trickle in, filling up the courtyard. It wasn’t till the sun was high overhead that the iron gates slammed shut.

  A trumpet blared. The quiet rumble of voices swelled in volume and then subsided into a hush.

  Long rows of men marched out beneath the soaring archways of the arcade, their strides in perfect rhythm. They wore red surcoats over their armor, the sigil of the Paladins—a golden hexagram surrounded by a perfect circle—emblazoned on their chests. The same sigil was carved into the pommels of their swords.

  Sam let out a small gasp at the sight of them: Paladins in full formal attire.

  They were magnificent to behold as they strode into the courtyard, the crimson tails of their surcoats streaming behind them. Among the boys, the rumbling started up again, a subtle crescendo.

  The Paladins drew to a halt, and a tall man in the front row raised his hand for silence. Silence fell.

  The paladin who had raised his hand stepped forward. Apart from his uncommon height, his appearance was unremarkable. He had a plain, forgettable face, the kind that people tended to skim over in a crowd. His hair was not quite blond, and not quite brown, his mouth was neither thin nor full, and his nose was straight and without character. His skin was lightly lined, like that of a middle-aged man who had aged well, or a younger man who had lived a life of labor.

  Behind Sam, someone whispered in awed reverence, “Faith in blood, that’s the High Commander.”

  Sam blinked back her surprise. That ordinary, unassuming man was the leader of the Paladins? She had imagined him to be bigger, broader, brighter, with the sort of towering presence expected of a hero. She’d imagined someone like Tristan Lyons. This man was so normal.

  But then he spoke, and she was mesmerized. The bell of his tenor would make the Gods themselves weep.

  “Welcome, new trainees,” he said. He did not speak loudly but his voice still carried across the courtyard. “Welcome to the Paladins.”

  She sucked in air, reeling.

  A small, amused smile played across his lips, as though he knew the effect of his voice. “The Paladins have defended Thule since the Age of the First Men. We are the thorn in Teivel’s side, the bringers of hope to our people. There is no nobler duty, no greater honor, than to serve.” His smile deepened. “But you know that already or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Nervous laughter met his words. The smile slipped off his face, and the laughter died with it. “We are the best and bravest fighters in Thule. We come from all walks of life, but to the last man, we are warriors. Here, it is our mettle in battle that determines our worth. We live and die by the blade.”

  His gaze swept over them. “Not all of you can become paladins. Not all of you are fit to serve. It is not enough to be good. It is not enough to be great. Only the best men will be invited to join our ranks. You will have one year to prove your worth. That you are a worthy addition to our ranks. That you are worthy of the title, Paladin.”

  He gestured towards the iron gates at the entrance to the courtyard. “When you stepped through these gates, you made a commitment to Thule, and to the Gods themselves, to abide by our laws and to protect Thule’s people.” His lips twitched again into that small, amused smile. “But the Paladins are not without mercy. Leave now and you are free to go. Your commitment is forgotten.”

  Nobody moved.

  The High Commander clapped his hands together. “Very well, then. Lord Astley, if you please.”

  The bald bespectacled man who had recorded her name scurried across the courtyard, a long roll of parchment paper in hand.

  “Today, you become students in the art of war,” the High Commander said. “You will each be assigned to serve and train under a paladin mentor.”

  Sam swallowed a lump of nerves. Suddenly her clothes felt too tight.

  “Lord Astley will call out your name and the name of your paladin,” said the High Commander. He nodded at the small man. “You may begin.”

  Lord Astley cleared his throat. “Owain of Jigodin!” He looked down at his roll of parchment. “Paladin Johann Kemp!”

  A tall boy with floppy brown hair that covered his eyebrows stumbled towards Lord Astley and the High Commander. One of the paladins stepped out of formation, grinned, and then slung an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

  “Fenric of Icetower!” Lord Astley continued. “Paladin Alan Savage!” She watched as Fenric went to meet his paladin, a man of swarthy complexion and flowing blue-black hair.

  The names droned on for so long that Sam only listened with half an ear. Her mind began to wander, and some of the tension drained from her body.

  “Sam of Haywood!” Lord Astley cried out. She jerked to attention.

  Lord Astley’s finger trailed along his parchment, searching for the corresponding name. “Paladin Tristan Lyons!” he shouted.

  Her heart froze in her chest. Surely this was some sort of cosmic joke. The Gods wouldn’t be so cruel.

  Like a condemned criminal walking to the gallows, Sam made her way toward her new mentor.

  There he stood, a ghost from her past. He had grown into himself in the two years since she’d last seen him. His face was harder and his golden hair cropped shorter, and he was more handsome than she remembered. His cobalt eyes met hers, widening before going cold and flat. Her belly tightened with nausea.

  Paladin Tristan Lyons. The man who’d saved her and the reason she was here.

  He would ruin everything.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tristan Lyons couldn’t believe his bad luck. For years, he’d looked forward to the day he’d foster his first trainee. The lad would be cut from the same cloth as Tristan—accomplished at weaponry, incomparably strong, a mite more handsome than was good for him—and they would be as brothers. They would fight together, break bread together, whore together . . .

  Instead, the Gods had seen fit to give him Sam of Haywood. Hadn’t they had enough laughs at his expense?

  A steady hum of conversation filled the fortress courtyard as trainees and paladins were introduced and began chatting. Tristan gritted his teeth. He would not be jealous.

  The boy hadn’t said a word since Lord Astley, the High Commander’s sniveling worm of a secretary, had announced their pairing. At the sound of Tristan’s name, his new trainee had gone white as a ghost and dropped half his belongings. What a sad, scrawny excuse for a boy. Sam of Haywood had no business being here.

  When Tristan could take the strained silence no longer, he said, “Speak up, boy. Surely you have questions for me.”

  Sam bowed his head and gave it a slight shake.

  Tristan fought back a growl. He needed a young man for a trainee, not a milksop. “Use words, boy, if you have them.”

  “Sam.”

  He stilled. “I beg your pardon?”

  Something flashed in those yellow-green eyes. “My name is Sam, Paladin. Not boy.”

  So Sam of Haywood was not entirely without spirit. Good. In a stern voice, he said, “I’ll call you whatever I please, trainee.”

  Sam tucked his head into his chest and nodded. He clasped his hands in front of him, the knuckles gone white.

  Att
empting kindness, Tristan said, “It’s not too late, you know. You can still go home. A paladin’s life isn’t easy. No one here would judge you for it.”

  Sam unclasped his hands and jutted out his chin. There was something familiar about the boy’s face, but Tristan couldn’t place it. “I’m where I’m meant to be,” Sam said simply.

  Tristan looked at the undersized trainee with an ounce more respect. “So be it,” he said. He offered his hand. “Paladin Tristan Lyons.”

  Sam stared at his extended hand like it was a dead fish. After a moment’s hesitation, he clasped it with his own. The boy’s hand, Tristan noted, was as callused as his, and his grip was firm. Perhaps there was hope for him yet. “Honored to serve, Paladin Lyons,” Sam said softly.

  “Tristan,” he said without thinking.

  Spots of color bloomed beneath Sam’s cheeks.

  “We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, you and me,” he explained, feeling awkward. “No reason to stand on ceremony.”

  “Okay, Tristan,” Sam practically whispered.

  Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose. One instant the boy showed glimpses of courage, and the next he was a scared rabbit. He’d need to toughen up if he had any hope of surviving past his first month. Forget about demons—his fellow trainees would eat him alive.

  “Let’s lay down the ground rules,” Tristan said gruffly. “While we lodge in the capitol, I expect you to earn your keep. Breakfast is at dawn. Sleep through it if you want, but food won’t be served again till midday. You’ll do weapons training with the other trainees straight after breakfast. Sleep through that and you’ll answer to me.” He paused to give Sam his best menacing glare. The boy looked suitably cowed. “Come, I’ll show you to the armory.”

  Those yellow-green eyes gleamed with interest. “Will I get my own sword?”

  Tristan chuckled in spite of himself. He remembered how eager he’d been as a trainee to get his hands on a real Paladin weapon. Gods, that seemed ages ago now. “That depends. Are you any good with one?”

  Sam drew his shoulders back, scowling. “I’m good enough.”

  Surprise and then anger shot through him at his trainee’s insolence. Sam had a sharp tongue, he’d give him that, but words were worthless in the heat of battle. “You heard the High Commander. ‘Good enough’ is never good enough here. You have to be the best.”

  His trainee flushed a deep red and looked down at his feet. When he looked up again, his jaw was set. “Who is the best?”

  “What?”

  “Who is the best?” Sam repeated. “You said I have to be the best. I’d like to know who currently holds that title.”

  “Me.” Tristan shrugged. He wasn’t boasting; it was plain truth. “I’ve never lost a duel, and I’ve slain more demons than men twice my age.”

  “Perfect,” Sam said. “Then I’ll just defeat you.”

  Tristan couldn’t help himself. He burst into laughter. It wasn’t a polite, mannerly chuckle either; he laughed long and loud, clutching at his belly.

  “I don’t see what’s so funny,” his trainee said stiffly.

  Still chuckling, he answered, “You’re mad. I’m First of the Sword. Do you know what that means? There are over ten thousand paladins in Thule, boy, and not a one of them can beat me. And you think you will be the first?”

  Sam regarded him as though he were daft. “Well, not today. We’ve only just begun training.”

  Tristan guffawed. “I like that,” he said once he managed to stop laughing. “We’d better get started, then, hadn’t we?” He clapped Sam on the shoulder and pretended not to notice that the boy flinched.

  “Pardon the interruption, Paladin Lyons,” Lord Astley said, appearing behind Sam. “The High Commander wishes to speak with you.”

  Tristan glanced back and forth between the secretary and his trainee. Sam’s face had paled again. “Now? Can it wait?”

  Lord Astley peered at him over his spectacles. “No, Paladin, it cannot. He’s waiting for you in his office.”

  He sighed. So much for getting started. “Lead the way, Astley.” He motioned for Sam to follow him.

  The High Commander’s office was buried deep in the heart of the fortress. They traipsed up and down narrow stairways and rounded winding corridors. Daylight crept in through cross-like slits throughout the stone wall, illuminating their path. Tristan had walked these halls countless times and for him they no longer held surprises. Sam’s eyes seemed as though they might explode from his head.

  At the arched double doors marking the entrance to the office, they stopped. “You go on ahead,” Lord Astley said. “I’ll wait here with Haywood.”

  Tristan nodded his thanks and lifted the heavy brass knocker on the left door. Both doors drew open before he could let it thud.

  “Paladin Lyons,” came the High Commander’s musical voice. “Tristan, my boy. Have a seat.”

  The High Commander reclined in a high-backed chair behind a large, angled desk. He was as self-possessed as ever, one leg draped over the other, thumbing through a stack of official looking papers.

  Tristan ducked his head in acknowledgement and sat himself in the nearest chair. Most men were intimidated by the High Commander—and rightfully so, for he rivaled the king in power—but Tristan had spent more time in his company than almost any other living paladin. The leader of the Paladins was an intensely private man, and even Tristan, who knew him better than most, would never call him a close companion. But he’d trust him—and he had, many times—with his life.

  “You’re displeased with your new trainee,” the High Commander said, still leafing through his papers.

  “I never said that.”

  The High Commander glanced up, his mouth settling into a small smile. “You didn’t have to. I’ve known you since you were a boy. I know how you think.”

  He wished he could say the same. “Sam of Haywood is . . . not what I’d expected,” he said neutrally.

  “You were hoping for someone like Danny.”

  Tristan winced, amazed that after all these years, the sound of his brother’s name still pained him. “I was hoping for a trainee with a little more promise.”

  The High Commander waved his hand. “Sam is from Haywood, Tristan. There hasn’t been a trainee from Haywood in more than a hundred years.”

  Tristan groaned. The long enmity between the High Commander and the Duke of Haywood was legendary. “I’ve already agreed to help you win an alliance with the duke.”

  A vague look of discomfort crossed the High Commander’s face. “Circumstances may have changed.”

  Tristan leapt up onto his feet. “What do you mean, circumstances may have changed? We signed the agreement!”

  The High Commander made a calming gesture. “Sit down, Tristan. The Duke of Haywood isn’t what I brought you here to discuss.”

  He fought to keep his temper in check. Tristan was allowed some liberties with the High Commander, but there were limits. No one could sway the High Commander from his agenda.

  Tristan bent in a stiff bow and reclaimed his seat. “What do you wish to discuss, High Commander?”

  The High Commander’s lips curved up for the briefest of moments, and then his pallid face grew grim. “Dark tidings and rumors from the West, my boy. If they are to be believed, another Age of Shadows may soon be upon us.”

  Tristan straightened in his chair. The Age of Shadows was the blackest time in Thule’s history, a time when demons freely roamed the earth and men lived without law and order. It was said that ages come in cycles, but the Age of Shadows was one the world hoped never to repeat. “What have you heard?”

  “Some truth, some lies, some in-between. Much of what the Sub Rosa has uncovered isn’t concrete.”

  Tristan wrinkled his nose at the mention of the Sub Rosa, the Paladins’ secret network of spies. They weren’t bound to the same ethical standards as the rest of the Paladins, and he judged them for it. Freed from their vows once they became Sub Rosa, they let
nothing get in the way of valuable information. Not even common decency.

  “But the crux of it is this,” the High Commander said, ignoring Tristan’s unspoken disapproval. “There are those who would see the end of us.”

  “The end of the Paladins? Why would anyone want to leave Thule defenseless?”

  The High Commander chuckled musically. “You are such a simple man.”

  Tristan bristled, struggling to hide his offense.

  “I don’t mean that as an insult. It’s what I’ve always liked about you. You are the best of us, Tristan, and not only because you’re handy with a sword.”

  “What about you?” he blurted.

  The High Commander’s expression turned carefully blank. “I am what I have to be, for all our sakes.”

  They were the most honest words the High Commander had ever spoken to him. Tristan wasn’t sure what to make of them. He pushed on. “You didn’t answer my question. Why would anyone want to rid Thule of the Paladins?”

  “Power,” the High Commander said. “The easiest way to rule is through fear.”

  “That makes no sense. No one can control the demons. All we can do is watch and protect.” Tristan shook his head. “Get rid of us, and Thule will descend into chaos.”

  The High Commander raised an eyebrow. “Leaving the opportunity for a new hero to rise and become Thule’s savior.”

  “Thousands would die.”

  “Aye.”

  Tristan thought this over. When he’d spoken his vows, he’d sworn to fight demons, not men. He had no real interest in politics or power games, nor did he understand them. If he’d carved out a leadership position for himself among the Paladins, it was only because he fought well and hard and because he was naturally charismatic. People liked Tristan. They always had.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked finally. “What do you want from me?”