Paladin

by Sally Slater

  “Faith in blood,” Sam complained. “Don’t they have anything better to talk about?”

  Braeden paused, a spoon of oatmeal halfway to his mouth. “If their gossiping bothers you, you could sit elsewhere.”

  She glared at him. “Are you trying to get me to leave?”

  He sighed, setting his spoon down. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Because if you’d prefer to be alone—”

  “Sam,” he said sternly. “Thank you. I appreciate the company.”

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice. “You’re welcome, I suppose.”

  His lips twitched, the beginnings of a dimple indenting his left cheek. “Has anyone ever told you you’re very combative?”

  “Just about everyone I’ve ever met.”

  He broke out into a full grin, and for a moment, she was entranced. His smile was rusty, like his mouth didn’t quite know what to do, but it warmed up his whole face. She stared at him for an inappropriate length of time before standing abruptly. “I’m going for second helpings.”

  Sam made her way to the center table, where breakfast was laid out buffet-style. As she reached for the ladle in the vat of porridge, she felt scalding hot liquid run down her back. She yelped, fruitlessly trying to pluck the plastered tunic from her skin.

  She whirled around to find Fenric holding a half-empty bowl of oats. “Oops,” he said. A smirk played across his lips. “It was an accident. My humble apologies.”

  “Humble apologies? You did that on purpose.”

  He leaned in close and said into her ear, “Perhaps.” He gave her a big slap on the back, right on top of where he’d spilled his oats. His hand came away covered with muck. “Disgusting,” Fenric said, wrinkling his nose. “You really ought to clean yourself up.”

  By the time she cleaned herself off and arrived at the practice yard, the trainees already held practice swords in hand.

  Of course Tristan noticed. “The illustrious Sam of Haywood has decided to grace us with his presence,” he said, looming over her. “By the way, you’re wearing your breakfast on your chin.”

  Sam scowled, wiping at her mouth with the sleeve of her tunic. She’d barely had time to change shirts let alone wash her face.

  “He’ll come ’round one day,” Will said from beside her. Will was a scrappy lad with ginger hair and an unfortunately freckled face. Sam gave him a pointed stare. He shrugged it off. “Or maybe not.”

  “William, Sam, stop your dawdling!” Tristan said sternly. “The two of you can practice dueling.”

  “Again?” Will groaned. “Sam always wins. A man’s ego can only take so much abuse.”

  “Good thing you’re still a half-grown pup, then,” Tristan said.

  Sam sniggered, and Will shot her a dirty look. She shrugged, smiling. “It’s funny when it isn’t aimed at me.”

  Sam and Will moved to the middle of the field where they could spread out. “Swords at the ready!” Tristan shouted. Sam stepped her right foot forward, bent her knees, and shifted her hilt to her left hip. Will copied her stance. “Begin!”

  Sam indicated with her chin. You first. After a slight shake of his head, Will lunged forward with his blade. She parried his thrust easily.

  “My turn,” she said, catching the right side of his sword with her blade’s edge. She swung again, and again, driving him backwards.

  Will managed to regain his footing, slashing at her torso. She danced out of the way and then darted in close, rapping his knuckles with the flat of her blade. His sword fell out of his grasp. Sam fought off a grin as she pressed her sword point into the underside of his chin.

  “I don’t know why I even bother,” Will said dejectedly. “Perhaps I’m meant to be a farmer after all.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You’ll make a fine paladin.”

  He sighed. “You’re better than me, Sam. Better than all of us.”

  Finally, some acknowledgment of her skill. If only Tristan agreed. Shaking her head, Sam retrieved Will’s discarded sword and handed it to him. “Again.”

  It was mid-afternoon by the time Tristan let them put down their practice blades. Sam wouldn’t have minded continuing on longer, but Will’s frustration was written plain on his face. He hadn’t landed a single solid blow, and she’d disarmed him more times than she could count.

  “Don’t you ever get tired of winning?” Will asked her.

  She grinned. “No.”

  “Well, I’m tired of losing. It gets depressing, you know.” He looked at her sideways. “I suppose you don’t know.”

  “You defeated Gavin just yesterday,” Sam pointed out gently. “And I lost to Tristan.”

  Will rolled his eyes. “That hardly counts.”

  As soon as they finished training, Tristan pulled her aside. “You were late this morning.”

  Sam started to explain about Fenric, and then thought better of it. She doubted Tristan would be sympathetic to her excuses. “Aye, I was late,” she said instead. “What’s my punishment?”

  “Chores,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “You know how to find the armoury on your own?”

  She nodded.

  “Ask for Paladin Locke. He’ll show you how to properly clean and oil a sword.”

  “You want me to clean your sword?” she asked hopefully. That wasn’t such a bad penance.

  “Not my sword,” said Tristan. “Ten swords of Paladin Locke’s choosing.”

  Sam groaned. Cleaning ten swords would take forever, and she still had the afternoon’s training ahead of her.

  The Paladins’ armoury was located on the opposite end of the fortress, so Sam cut through the courtyard to shorten the distance. She had assumed that Paladin Savage, like Tristan, would have already ended morning training—she’d learned early on he hated to be interrupted for any reason. To her surprise, his entire trainee group remained in the courtyard, standing in a tight circle. But where was Paladin Savage?

  She squinted, spotting him at the circle’s center. The paladin’s sword was drawn, his pose threatening.

  Braeden glided into the circle, as somber as ever in his stark black robes, his silver hair tied in a long braid down his back. As far as Sam could tell, he wore no armor, but . . . She gasped. Two twin blades were strapped across his back in an X. She had never seen anyone fight with two swords before.

  Paladin Savage’s mouth moved, but from where she stood, she couldn’t overhear him. Braeden gave a terse nod in reply to whatever it was the paladin said, and the paladin returned with a condescending pat on the shoulder. She saw the half demon flinch.

  Braeden stepped back and drew his two swords from their sheaths. He rolled his wrists, whipping the blades through the air in elliptical patterns. When he didn’t let up, Sam realized that the movement was not a warm-up, but some sort of dynamic starting stance.

  Braeden’s swords whirred around faster and faster, till they were little more than a blur, but he did not attack. Paladin Savage smirked and said something to Braeden. He then gave a slight toss of his head and lunged, thrusting his sword.

  And bounced off like he’d struck coiled spring.

  The shock on the paladin’s face was almost comical, a mirror of her own. What had just happened? Braeden hadn’t blocked him; he’d repelled him. She’d never seen the like.

  The paladin’s astonishment faded fast into anger, and he leapt forward, slashing his sword in a downward arc. Steel clanged against steel, and his elbow shot backward at an awkward angle.

  He swung his sword faster and harder, higher and lower, but it was no use. Nothing could get through the impenetrable wall of Braeden’s whirling swords.

  Paladin Savage brought his blade above his head, the look in his eye murderous. His expression made Sam nervous. Attack him already, she thought at Braeden. End this before he tries to kill you in earnest.

  Braeden’s swords stopped spinning. His wrists faced out, blades pointing in opposite directions. It left him wide open, his torso unguarde
d. What in the name of the Gods was he doing?

  Paladin Savage charged, his sword crashing down. Sam squeezed her eyes shut, cracking one lid open in time to see the paladin’s blade pass through nothing but air. She hadn’t seen Braeden move.

  Neither had Paladin Savage.

  Braeden stood a yard behind him, pressing the tips of his swords into the back of the paladin’s neck. “Yield,” Braeden said clearly. He held his head high, his chin stubborn and proud.

  Sam looked from Paladin Savage to Braeden and back again. Rage and humiliation darkened the paladin’s swarthy complexion to purple.

  For a moment, she thought he was going to refuse to withdraw. His chest puffed up and his shoulders rolled back, but he deflated in his next breath. “I yield. Well fought,” he said, spitting out the words like poison. He retreated, and with a grimace, faced the rest of his trainees. “Dismissed.” His eyes landed on Sam, who had done her best to remain unnoticed. “What are you looking at?” he snarled, his cheeks flushing a dull red.

  “I—I . . .”

  “That’s enough out of you, Haywood. Go find Paladin Locke in the armoury and see that he finds you work to do. That’s an order.”

  “But—” She hung her head. “Aye, Paladin.”

  Sam couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t for lack of exhaustion; eight hours of training and twenty polished swords later, her body ached in places that had never ached before. As she lay awake in the dark for that first hour, she blamed the excitement of the day for the quickness of her heart. Or maybe the reason was Braeden; she was not yet accustomed to sharing a room, let alone with a boy.

  But now her heart raced in uncomfortably fast beats; she could feel her pulse leap against the base of her throat. Sweat matted her hair, trickling down her neck and back, and her hands were clammy. Something was wrong.

  “Braeden,” she whispered. “Braeden, are you awake?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you feel that? It feels . . . not right.”

  Braeden lit a candle by his bedside, the soft glow casting shadows across his face, highlighting the otherworldliness of his eyes. No part of him looked human.

  She gulped. “Braeden?”

  “Aye, I feel it, too.” He was fully clothed in his Rhean black robes, two wickedly spiked knives in either hand. He gave her bedclothes a cursory glance. “Get dressed.”

  Sam didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the closest pair of breeches and a tunic and ran into their private privy. She spent a moment ensuring that her chest binding was in place and then dressed hurriedly.

  “Do you know how to use a knife?” Braeden asked.

  “Well enough, I suppose,” she said. “What’s going on? Why do I need a knife?”

  “No time to explain. Here, catch.” Braeden retrieved another small dagger from the folds of his robes and tossed it across the room. The dagger sunk into the floor with a resounding thunk, missing Sam’s toe by a scant inch.

  “Are you mad?” she gasped.

  Braeden shrugged. “I thought you would catch it.” He crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed her by the wrist. “Come on, they’re almost in the fortress.”

  “Who’s almost in the fortress?”

  Braeden’s slit pupils spun counterclockwise till they ran horizontally, a black dash across the crimson of his irises. “Demons,” he said. He shivered, his pupils elongating. “They’re inside.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Sam shut the door to her room, wincing at the loud creak. The hallway was dark and empty, lit only by the paltry glow of a single candle. Trainees were not supposed to be out of bed at this hour. Tristan had never specified the punishment for breaking curfew, but she doubted she would enjoy it. “Maybe we should wake Tristan,” she whispered. “He’d know what to do.”

  “We don’t have time to convince him the threat is real,” Braeden said. “He’ll just try to stop us.”

  “Why wouldn’t he believe you?”

  “Why should he?”

  Sam had no answer to that. “Braeden—” she started. He put his finger to his lips.

  His warning came too late. Tristan wrenched his door open, wearing a dark scowl. “What do you two think you’re doing?”

  Braeden shot her a reproachful glance—she hadn’t been that loud—and then swept a bow. “Please accept my apologies, Paladin Lyons, but you’ll have to save our dressing-down for another time.” He gripped her shoulder. “Are you coming?”

  Sam opened her mouth to explain herself to Tristan, but her mind went blank.

  Paladin Tristan Lyons had left his room dressed only in his smallclothes.

  “What’s with the red face, boy?” he asked.

  “Y-y-your clothes,” she stammered. “You aren’t wearing any.”

  Tristan looked down at his bare, very male torso. “Surely you’ve seen a man in his smallclothes before?”

  Of course she hadn’t! She was a lady! “Y-yes, Tristan,” she lied.

  “Never mind what I’m wearing or not wearing. Why are you two out of bed after hours?” he demanded.

  “Demons, Paladin,” Braeden said. “They’re inside the fortress.”

  “That’s impossible,” Tristan said flatly. “The fortress is warded from demons.”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “You can ward against demons? Why don’t we place wards everywhere?”

  “It’s a lost art. This fortress was built right after the Age of Shadows. The wards were cast then.” Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. “Go back to bed.”

  “What about me?” Braeden asked quietly. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Tristan frowned. “Maybe you’re not demon enough to set off the wards. I don’t know.”

  Braeden’s gaze flicked to Sam, as if to say I-told-you-so. She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. She’d followed him on a feeling. Tristan would need more than that.

  Braeden pushed back his right sleeve, revealing a sinewy, well-muscled arm and the most intricate tattoo Sam had ever seen. A dark red pattern of glyphs wrapped itself around his skin from shoulder to wrist. But it wasn’t the elaborate design of Braeden’s tattoo that monopolized Sam’s attention.

  The circulation of his blood was a visible thing; the blue veins in his arms stood out, pulsating rhythmically, and as his blood ebbed and flowed, his skin rose and receded like the waves of the ocean. Sam stared, transfixed.

  “I can sense their presence,” Braeden said. “Their blood calls out to mine. When a demon is within range, my blood responds like this.”

  “Let’s say you’re right,” Tristan said with frank disbelief, though his gaze was locked on Braeden’s undulating skin. “Say demons somehow broke through the wards and are in the fortress. You thought to take them on yourselves? Two untested trainees with half a brain between them?”

  Sam wanted to give a nasty retort, but Braeden silenced her with a slight jerk of his head. “We haven’t the time to worry about protocol or niceties. You can join us or punish us on the morrow.”

  Tristan swore under his breath. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Let me get dressed, and then I will escort you. And when there are no demons, I will escort you back to your room, where you will remain for the rest of the night. Are we agreed?”

  “Aye,” Braeden said.

  “Aye, Tristan,” Sam echoed.

  The great hall was eerily quiet. A feeling of thick malevolence choked the air, ten times thicker than it had been in Sam and Braeden’s chambers. The room lay in darkness but for the flame of their torch and the silver light of the moon glimmering through the cut glass of the gothic windows. Warped black shadows crawled across the room and scuttled over the walls, but that was all they were—shadows.

  “I don’t see anything,” Sam whispered.

  “They’re here,” Braeden said.

  The skepticism faded from Tristan’s face. “Be on guard, lads.”

  “Paladin, with your permission, I’ll draw them out of hiding,” Braeden said. Tristan nodded his assent.

  Braeden ran
the tip of his knife along the inside of his arm. Blood welled from the cut and trickled down to his fingers before splashing onto the pale cream of the tiled floor.

  “They can’t resist the lure of blood,” Braeden explained. “Not even from one of their own.” He let a few more drops of blood spill from his veins and then ripped a strip of cloth from his robes, wrapping it efficiently around his wound.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Only their uneven breaths and the slight rustle of fabric interrupted the quiet of the night.

  Two crimson spheres winked into existence at the rear of the hall, backlit by an infernal glow. Sam sucked in a gulp of air. She’d seen eyes like those once before.

  “First demon?” Tristan asked her softly.

  Sam shook her head. “My second.”

  He gave her a curious look before turning to Braeden. “It’s only the one. I can handle it my—” He shut up as a second pair of crimson orbs joined the first, followed by a third. “All right, let’s split. Sam, you take the one on the left, I’ll go after the one in the middle, and Braeden, you take the right.”

  Braeden held up a hand. “Wait.”

  A fourth and a fifth set of eyes appeared, followed by a sixth and a seventh . . . Sam stopped counting as a sea of red swept across the hall. How many were there? Certainly more than one paladin and two trainees were meant to handle on their own. Her heart skipped a beat. She wasn’t ready for this yet. Tristan had been right; she’d been a fool to think she could take on a demon herself.

  “Sam, light the lamp to your left,” Tristan ordered, pressing the torch into her hand. “Move!”

  Startled out of her trance, she turned her attention to the ensconced fixture on the nearest wall. She lit it quickly and then set the torch aside. Light flooded the room. Sam blinked, grateful for the reprieve from darkness—till she caught a proper glimpse of the intruders.

  Tristan swore under his breath. “Bloody hellhounds.”

  Even on all fours, the demon hounds were as tall as humans and so lean they were nearly skeletal. Their mighty jaws snapped open and shut, revealing rows of razor sharp teeth. Saliva dripped from their jowls. A terrible, fetid stench permeated the room, and Sam came close to retching.