Paladin

by Sally Slater

  “Not just hellhounds,” Braeden said, pointing. “Look.”

  Sam and Tristan looked where Braeden was pointing. A giant serpent slithered across the floor, moving at a speed that belied its enormous size. Mottled green and brown with a pale yellow underbelly, the snake had three hooded heads, each with its own set of enlarged fangs and flicking tongue.

  Tristan shuddered. “I loathe snakes.”

  Sam gaped at him. The almighty Tristan Lyons feared something? In spite of her own mounting fear, she broke out into a grin. Even heroes had their weaknesses.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “We fight,” Tristan said grimly. “And we pray.” The demons edged closer, sniffing the air with their long snouts.

  “There’s no plan?”

  “Don’t die,” Tristan said, and with a yell, sprinted into the throng of demons.

  She watched with a mixture of awe and dread as Tristan carved his way through demon after demon. He was beautiful to watch, a whirlwind of man and sword, spraying blood in a never-ending spiral.

  “What are you waiting for?” Braeden hissed. “Go!” He shoved her none-too-gently before leaping into action, knives streaming through the air.

  Before Sam had time to think, one of the hellhounds charged her. Staring into its cruel crimson eyes and canine face, she was transported back two years ago, to the woods in Haywood where her mother had died. Her voice echoed in Sam’s head.

  “Run. For the love of Emese, run!”

  Sam turned on her heel and bolted.

  A large body slammed into her side, knocking her to the floor. As she struggled to right herself, massive jaws clamped around her waist and flung her into the air as if she were nothing more than a dog’s chew toy. She plummeted towards a wide, gaping mouth framed by pointed teeth the length of her head. Sam closed her eyes, imagining her end in the pit of the hellhound’s stomach.

  Sam was submerged in liquid, wetness seeping through her clothes. But as she opened her eyes, she was not, as she had feared, soaked in digestive fluids. By sheer, dumb luck, she had landed blade first, the force of her landing driving her dagger deep into the hellhound’s throat. She stood knee high in a pool of demon saliva and blood. Trying not to gag, she retrieved her dagger, using it as leverage to free her feet from the sticky substance.

  “It won’t die till you cut off its head!” called Tristan. He leapt neatly over the corpse of one demon then sliced clean through another’s neck.

  Sam followed Tristan’s advice, hacking away at the demon till its head was completely severed from its body. Gods, how she wished she had a sword instead of this pathetic butter knife.

  A glint of steel caught her eye, and Sam clapped her hand against her forehead. Why hadn’t she thought of it earlier? She darted between the carcasses of two hellhounds, then pulled down one of the swords from the wall. Shoving her dagger into her boot, she tested the blade’s edge, wincing as it cut through her skin. It would do.

  Imbued with new confidence, Sam marched towards the thick of the fray, sword at the ready. Despite Tristan and Braeden’s efforts, most of the demons still remained; it would not be an easy victory, if it were a victory at all.

  Sam buried her new sword into the closest demon, ripping through its ribcage and into its heart. The creature sank onto its hind legs, letting out one last bay as she liberated its head from its body. Without pausing, she moved to her next target, ramming her sword through flesh and bone.

  As she fought her way through the horde of demons, she found herself back-to-back with Tristan. Wordlessly, they acknowledged each other, striking the enemy in unison, felling demons left and right.

  The three-headed snake rose up above them, balancing on its single tail. Its jaws hinged open at an obtuse angle as if to swallow them whole. Without warning, it struck. Sam and Tristan just barely managed to roll out of the way. Now, she was mad: that was the second time tonight something had tried to eat her.

  Tristan mopped his sweaty face with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his cheeks. “We can beat this thing,” he said, a hint of fatigue creeping into his voice. “You attack from behind; I’ll distract it.”

  While Tristan engaged the demon in an elaborate game of cat and mouse, Sam ducked and dodged her way around to the serpent’s tail. With a running start, she planted her sword and vaulted off the floor, propelling half way up the snake’s vertebrae. The scales were rough and ridged, cutting into the palms of her hands, but she pushed aside the pain, climbing higher till she reached the serpent’s hooded neck. Gripping onto the folds of its loose skin with one hand, she held her sword aloft with the other, jamming it deep into the skull of its leftmost head.

  The problem with beheading a three-headed snake is that there are three heads to behead. Sure enough, the decapitation of one of its heads was not enough to kill the demon. Instead, the now two-headed serpent reared back, sending Sam sailing across the room. Her legs buckled beneath her as she crashed. She attempted to get to her feet, but the instant she put pressure on her right ankle, her eyes crossed at the pain. Hoping to use her sword as a crutch, Sam realized with dawning horror that the blade remained lodged inside the snake’s one severed head.

  Sensing injured prey, four hellhounds encircled Sam, gnashing their teeth and licking their chops. She was surrounded, with only a dagger for protection.

  But this time, Tristan was in no position to play the hero. The snake demon had coiled itself around his legs, trapping him where he stood. Only his sword, which he rotated above his head in a quick, fanlike motion, shielded him from the serpent’s venomous fangs.

  Where was Braeden? Sam hadn’t seen him since he had launched his first attack. Was he still alive? Tristan had been at her side, if only for a time; Braeden had been left to fend for himself.

  “Braeden!” she shouted, praying to the Gods that somehow everything would be all right.

  A deafening howl pierced through the din of battle, forcing Sam to her knees. Even the demons seemed startled by the sound.

  From the remaining mass of demons, a lone, man-shaped figure emerged. Braeden.

  But the figure wasn’t Braeden. Or at least not the Braeden she remembered. The rust-colored eyes, pupils stretched so thin they were almost invisible, those were his. But there was a savagery to them she’d never seen before. The creature—for he was more demon than man—was bare to the waist, his previously lithe frame filled with bulging muscle and thick striations, bordering on deformity. The silver hair she’d grown accustomed to seeing tied in a braid or piled in a topknot fell in loose, wild waves to his hipbone. He spread his arms wide, and a wall of demons assembled behind him, pawing at the ground.

  “Braeden?” she called again tentatively.

  Braeden turned to her and smiled, a feral grin that spoke of cruelty to come.

  Sam swallowed. She was as good as dead.

  CHAPTER 7

  Braeden didn’t fear much in life. Why would he be afraid of monsters when he was one himself? He’d been told he was evil since he’d left his mother’s womb, and after a time, he’d started to believe it true. His childhood had been marked by long days and nights he couldn’t remember, and he’d wake to find his lips and teeth smeared with blood that wasn’t his.

  There wasn’t much to fear when he was his own worst nightmare.

  His master had taught him to harness the demon within him, till all that remained were his cursed eyes and the blood seal that wrapped around his arm like a vise. When his master had branded the tattoo into his skin, Braeden had wanted to howl at the pain. But such was the price of control.

  Braeden soon learned that like any other seal, his could be breached. His demon had been bound with blood, and it could be freed just the same. He had only to cut into his own flesh, and blood and demon would seep out. His master had warned him that his blood was a potent weapon to be used sparingly; like a drug, the power flowing through his veins was addictive.

  It wasn’t the addiction that sc
ared Braeden, but the loss of his humanity. The more of his blood he spilled, the less of his humanity remained. And when only the tiniest shred of his human consciousness was left, that was when he could connect with the demons. Not in any meaningful way—most demons lacked the rational thought patterns underpinning true communication. But they recognized Braeden as one of their own. More than that, they recognized him as their leader. These creatures that were so often agents of chaos bowed to him as though he were the alpha among wolves. Now that frightened him.

  Braeden could count on one hand the number of times he’d intentionally reached such a state. Oh, he’d used his blood often enough—to boost his strength and stamina, among other fun tricks. But tonight he’d spilled too much from his veins, and he bordered on the point of no return.

  He struggled not to lose himself to the mob mentality of the demons. Demons understood two emotions—hunger and fear—and intertwined with their minds, he was overwhelmed by their desire for death and destruction.

  A remnant of rationality tugged at the back of his mind. As their thirst for violence infected him, Braeden became aware of a strangeness about his bloodlust, a singular focus at odds with the anarchic nature of a demon. The demons thought as one, driven towards a single target. Sam.

  Braeden could smell Sam’s blood from across the room, sweet and seductive. The desire to rip into his skin felt like a compulsion, as if his very survival were dependent on tasting the boy’s flesh. Beside him, the hellhounds fought against their mental restraints, eager for a mouthful. He wouldn’t be able to keep them obedient for much longer. He was having enough trouble controlling his own urges.

  Braeden pushed through the fog in his mind. Preventing the demons from attacking required his full concentration, and he would have to release his mental hold on them in order to fight. Sam, by the smell of him, was hurt and in no shape for fighting off hellhounds. Braeden couldn’t protect him, not from this many demons. He didn’t want the boy to die.

  Odd, Braeden didn’t think he’d ever cared before about the fate of another human.

  He needed to get to Sam before it was too late. Braeden lifted his nose to the air and inhaled, guided by the scent of Sam’s blood. Teetering on the edge of control, he was caught between wanting to find Sam and wanting to satisfy his bloodlust. He reeled himself in, forcing his mind to focus.

  He saw Sam’s sword before he saw Sam. Nestled deep in the back of an enormous serpent skull, it stuck out straight in the air like a silver flagpole. The hilt was covered in Sam’s blood. Braeden tugged the sword free with both hands, wiping off the gore on his robes.

  Then he heard his name.

  “Braeden!” Sam cried, his voice high and desperate.

  He moved swiftly towards the voice. Faith in blood. Sam was surrounded by four demons that had escaped Braeden’s control. Braeden looked down at the sword in his hand. If he didn’t act quickly, the hellhounds would tear Sam apart.

  There was no other alternative. Drawing a dagger from his robes, Braeden closed his eyes and prayed to the Gods who had never heard from him before. With a keening cry, he plunged the dagger deep into his heart.

  For what could have been seconds or hours, Braeden drifted in darkness. When he came to, he thought he’d lost himself to one of the violent blackout periods that had marred his youth. But Sam was still alive, and the only blood that soaked his hands belonged to his still-beating heart.

  “Braeden?”

  He saw himself reflected in Sam’s eyes, a monstrous parody of his usual aspect. And he saw clearly that Sam feared him. Gone was whatever tentative trust they’d built between them.

  For the first time since he’d stabbed himself, his heart began to hurt.

  Move, he told the demons surrounding Sam. They bowed their heads to their paws and lowered their tails between their feet, backing away.

  Trembling, Sam pointed a dagger at Braeden—the dagger Braeden had given him.

  His mouth crooked up at the irony. “I believe this is mine.” He wrenched the blade away from Sam, returning it to the folds of his robes. The color drained from Sam’s face as he stared at his empty hands. Braeden could barely look at him. “Here,” he said, thrusting forward the sword he’d retrieved from the serpent demon’s skull. “Thought you’d prefer to use this.”

  Sam’s face went from white to scarlet. “I am the world’s biggest ass,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

  Braeden shrugged in reply.

  Leaning on his sword for support, Sam asked, “Why aren’t the demons attacking? Don’t you think it’s strange?”

  He ignored the question. “You need to get out of here while you still can. You’re hurt.”

  “I can’t leave you and Tristan,” Sam protested. “I want to help.”

  “You’re of no use to us injured,” Braeden said. “If you want to help, find reinforcements. Get out of here and warn the High Commander we’ve been infiltrated.”

  Sam looked as though he wanted to protest further, but with a curt nod he obeyed, hobbling towards the staircase at the rear of the great hall.

  As soon as Sam was gone, Braeden let his grasp on the demons slip. He felt the last of his control over them snap. The demons moved sluggishly at first, as if waking from a daze. And then, of a single, vengeful mind, they converged on him.

  Braeden slipped his knives into his hands and braced for the onslaught. The demons were ravenous now, and this time the blood they craved was his.

  Snarling its rage, a hellhound leapt for his throat. Another dove at his ankles. Braeden sidestepped, slicing through the neck of the hound at his feet and twisting his knife into the belly of the other. He tore his knives from their flesh, striking again and again, till they both lay dead.

  Then another demon attacked, sweeping a heavy clawed paw at his face. He dodged and then shot forward, embedding a knife in its throat. He pushed the blade all the way through, then ripped it free, taking the demon’s head with it.

  He lost himself to the fever of battle, killing without thought or hesitation. He was as violent and as merciless as the hounds who hunted him, but stronger and smarter. He was the predator and they the prey. They died like flies around him.

  “Braeden. Braeden!”

  Distantly, he heard his name. He shook the cobwebs from his mind, focusing on where and who he was.

  A hand touched his shoulder. “It’s over, lad,” Paladin Lyons said. “They’re all dead.”

  “Good,” Braeden said, his throat dry. “Good.” He looked around the great hall, noticing that they were no longer alone. Paladins and trainees filled the room, armed with weapons but dressed as though they’d just rolled out of bed. They were staring at him.

  Braeden shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny. “How long have they been here?”

  Tristan cleared his throat. “A while. You put on quite the performance. You didn’t leave much for the rest of us to do.”

  One of the trainees stepped forward, the boy they called Fenric. He was a particularly unpleasant boy, with a high opinion of himself and never a nice word to say to anyone. Braeden tried to avoid him as much as possible. “You!” he cried out. “You brought the demons here.”

  Braeden gaped at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We know it was you,” Fenric said, his voice trembling with hatred. “Paladin Savage is dead.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Sam tapped her good foot nervously, waiting to be called into the High Commander’s office. A summons from the leader of the Paladins was not something to be taken lightly in any circumstances.

  The funeral pyre for Paladin Savage had still been burning when Lord Astley announced the High Commander was investigating the attack on the fortress. Sam could read between the lines—Braeden was under investigation. It’s not fair! she had wanted to shout. He saved us all, you fools!

  A pang of guilt coursed through her. Was she really any better than Braeden’s accusers? She’d be lying if she said she’d never questioned his motives
. For a moment there last night, she’d been convinced he had meant to kill her. She could have sworn she had seen her death in his crimson eyes.

  “The High Commander is ready to see you,” Lord Astley said, interrupting her thoughts.

  She gulped and nodded, limping after the secretary. Lord Astley stopped outside the ornate double door to the High Commander’s office and rapped his knuckles against the wood.

  “Enter,” a muffled voice called.

  “Go on.” Lord Astley pushed the door open and gestured for her to enter, then closed the door behind her.

  Her steps faltered, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of stuff crammed into one little room. The office showed the signs of decades’ worth of collecting, overflowing with fine antiques and odd artifacts and trinkets. There was no discernible rhyme or reason. Mismatched tables sported various baubles and bibelots: a porcelain teapot sat next to the bronzed figurine of a warrior from the Age of the First Men, and a gilded snuffbox rested atop an exquisitely crafted chessboard. On the walls, hung archaic weapons made of bone and wood. Beside them, draped giant scrolls with obscure symbols and ancient scratchings.

  Sam was so engrossed in her surroundings that she almost didn’t notice the High Commander. He sat behind his desk, an unremarkable man with unremarkable features. Vaguely, she recalled his face from the opening ceremony. He caught her eye and smiled slightly.

  “Please, Sam, take a seat,” he said in his enthralling tenor. Again, she was struck by the loveliness of his voice, hypnotic and smooth as velvet. Shaking off the spell, she obliged, pulling out a chair from underneath the desk.

  “Sam of Haywood,” he mused. He stared at her for an uncomfortably long time. She fidgeted under his gaze. “How did you come to join the Paladins, Sam?”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  The High Commander tilted his head, studying her. “We so rarely have trainees from Haywood. I confess I’m curious to know more about you.”