The Paladins

by David Dalglish

“This is my fight now,” Kaide said. “There’s no reason to put any more of you at risk. Luther will march out tomorrow, and wherever he goes, I will follow. I won’t let him escape, not even if he goes to the far ends of the world. But as for you all…”

  “Stuff it,” Adam said, interrupting him. “You think you’re the only one who misses Sandra? She was like a sister to me.”

  “To both of us,” said Griff.

  “You have families to return to,” Kaide argued.

  “Well I don’t,” Bellok said, running a hand through his white hair. “Or did you forget why we took up arms with you in the first place?”

  Kaide looked to the men, and despite his humiliation at the hands of Arthur, despite his fury at such betrayal, he couldn’t help but feel proud of everything he’d accomplished.

  “Thank you,” he said. “But you four only. My feud with Luther has nothing to do with the rest. They wanted a new lord for their farms and villages, and they’ve gotten it. Let them escape without any more bloodshed. As for us…Luther’s not a king or a lord. We need no army to take him down. Just the right moment.”

  “He’s powerful,” Bellok said. “And king or not, he still commands a fearsome army. I hope you have something clever in mind.”

  “There’s times for brute force, and times for a clever mind,” Kaide said. “I only need to know which one is right for us at the time.”

  “All and good, but right now’s a time for neither of those,” Adam said, procuring several mugs of ale that seemed to be magically flooding the eastern half of the camp. “Right now is a time to get completely, fully, thoroughly shit-faced. Sebastian’s dead. May he never rest in peace.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Kaide said.

  “To the dead,” said Bellok.

  “Both now and yet to come,” Kaide said, and despite the terrible pain of his hands, he lifted the cup and drank.

  Redclaw stood in the center of the manmade road, and he let the soft night breeze blow through his ember fur. He breathed in, and he tried to enjoy the scent of his prey before him. The presence of the priest sapped away all the joy. His wolves would not be allowed to tear through the human ranks with the wild abandon that made them such dangerous warriors. They couldn’t howl and feast, the blood of their victims on their tongues. They had to obey rules. They had to obey their god, Cyric.

  “You know what must be done,” Cyric said to him. “Do it.”

  With Redclaw’s howl, the rest of his pack approached, filling the road and the fields to either side. At his charge, they followed, storming into the dark streets of the village. The defenses were meager. No wall, no soldiers, just a few men who patrolled for thieves and brigands. Redclaw raced ahead of the others, determined to take what little sport there would be that night. He found one of the few wielding a sword and leapt upon him, opening his throat with a single slash. There was no satisfying splash of blood, his claws so hot they cauterized the wound as they cut. Redclaw’s disappointment was crushing. Putting his teeth to the man’s neck, he bit down, and at last he tasted the blood he craved.

  Through the straw huts ran the rest of his pack, smashing open doors and dragging out men, women, and children. Some were bitten, others slashed, but nothing lethal. They had to obey their god. Redclaw stalked through them as the work was done. The village was small, maybe two hundred people. Compared to his thousand wolves, they were nothing, and in minutes the entire town was gathered in the square. They stood huddled and sobbing, rightfully frightened by the great mass of wolf-men that formed a living cage of claw and fur around them.

  And then Cyric went to them with open arms.

  “I come to you as the living embodiment of your god,” he said. “I am Cyric. I am Karak made flesh. Kneel, profess your faith, and live.”

  Redclaw watched, trying to fight his frustration. His wolf-men were hungry, he knew that, for he was hungry as well. But what they were about to receive didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like a hunt. Of the two hundred, all but fifty knelt. Redclaw snorted. No matter how sincere their worship sounded, he doubted even a sliver of the kneeling actually believed Cyric was who he claimed he was. Mankind was a cowardly race, terrified of death. Why would they not bow to spare their lives?

  To fight, of course, yet the ones who remained standing were not fighting. They only stood there, shivering, and it made no sense to the wolf.

  “Those still standing, step forward,” Cyric called to them.

  They did. Redclaw saw old people, young, even a few children clutching their parents’ hands. He waited, knowing what was to happen next. Calmly Cyric walked to them, and he pulled out five healthy men and women, guiding them to stand separate from the others.

  I will claim the faithful, Cyric had told him. As for the unfaithful, their souls are mine by right, but I will give you a tenth.

  Without a word, Cyric gestured to the five, and that is when the pack descended upon them. They tore and bit at one another, fighting to get at the bodies that were quickly shredded to pieces. Redclaw watched, careful to show no disapproval. It wasn’t a hunt, he kept thinking. They were being fed scraps.

  Amid the sobs and cries of the rest, Cyric turned on the remaining forty and lifted his hands.

  “Your faith is lacking,” he said. “But across the tides of time you will repent, and your souls will be spared torment. Know that I do this out of mercy. I do this out of love.”

  From his hands shot dark fire and lightning, and it tore through their ranks, killing them in ways Redclaw could only guess. Many doubled over, coughing blood, others shaking so violently he thought their bones might break. It was a brutal spectacle, lacking the pride of a claw tearing into flesh. Such strange strength Cyric possessed, but he could not deny it. Within moments the forty-five were dead.

  They did not stay dead for long.

  “They are not enough,” Redclaw said as he rejoined Cyric’s side.

  “Brick by brick we build the kingdom,” Cyric said. “Not wall by wall.”

  “No,” Redclaw insisted. “Them. We are a thousand, and you give us five? My wolves starve.”

  His god finally looked his way, and something dangerous was in his eyes.

  “This village will have many cattle in the outlying fields,” he said. “Slaughter half. I trust that will be sufficient until the next village. And if not, see if they have goats as well.”

  “Goats?” roared Redclaw. “Cattle? We were promised the blood of man, not beasts!”

  “Lower your voice,” Cyric said.

  Redclaw looked away, and though the furious pumping of his heart did not slow, he at least kept his rage in check.

  “If you insist,” he growled.

  “You lose your temper when you are hungry,” Cyric said as the wolf-men dispersed into the fields, not needing to be told that they might take the cattle. They would take them anyway. As the remaining people of the village bowed, Cyric walked among them, blessing them, telling them to pray.

  “When might I be hungry no longer?” Redclaw asked, thinking the question phrased safely enough to ask.

  “We are in the far reaches of Mordan,” Cyric said. “These small villages may not satisfy you, but soon we will come to cities whose walls stretch as far as even your fine eyes can see. You will have armies to feast upon, and men whose long blades and heavy armor will give your claws a chance to flex. I have broken no promise to you, so do not blame me for the meagerness of the wilds. Would you eat any better in the Vile Wedge?”

  “No,” Redclaw said, dipping his head. “We would not. Forgive me.”

  “You are forgiven,” Cyric said. “Now go, be with your kind. I must preach a new wisdom to the converted.”

  Redclaw thought to return to his pups in the far outskirts, too small to partake in battle, but then changed his mind. He wanted solitude for once, to be away from the enormous pack. As he left, he looked back at the humans gathered at the feet of the priest. It’d be at least two hours before he stopped his preaching and
let them return to their homes. Perhaps longer. Such a shame there’d been so many willing to kneel. They might have dined far better otherwise. But there was always another town nearby. It seemed the one truth he knew about humans. There were always more, and for once, it did not frighten him.

  That night was the ninth village they’d overtaken, and Redclaw prayed there might be hundreds more.

  17

  The group of leaders gathered around the map in Tower Silver, and none were pleased with what they were hearing, Darius included.

  “It is hard for me to know for certain,” Valessa said, looking it over. She tapped Tower Silver, then traced her finger northeast. “But my best guess is that Cyric is somewhere here, leading whatever army he might have.”

  Darius leaned over in the cramped room, and he shook his head as he counted villages within the vicinity, as well as ones Cyric might have passed through on his way there. The number was frightening.

  “At least twelve, if not more,” he said. “His progress isn’t being slowed in the slightest, either.”

  “Of course not,” Daniel said. “He’s fighting unarmed farmers, women and children. But those last three villages we managed to evacuate. The river’s letting us stay ahead, and truth be told, it doesn’t seem like Cyric’s in that much of a hurry to catch up.”

  “It’s not those by the river I’m worried about,” Valessa said, turning their attention back to her. “What of those further out?”

  Darius could tell what bothered her. A mile from Tower Silver was the town of Wheaton, which they’d already evacuated. But seven miles beyond that was another village by the name of Cade’s Rest. They’d sent a single rider to alert them, but so far he had not returned.

  “If what you say is right, the mad priest will be here within twenty-four hours, and that’s if we’re lucky,” Daniel said. “We need to move out before nightfall if we’re to maintain our separation.”

  “But what of the town?” Valessa asked.

  “If they get here in time, they’ll come with us on the boats. Otherwise…” Daniel shrugged his shoulders. “There’s not much else to do.”

  “They won’t come,” said Livstrom, the soldier in charge of Tower Red. He was an overweight man, and he looked stuffed into the armor he wore. “The people of Cade’s Rest are a stubborn bunch, especially the man who leads them. His name’s Martin Reid, and even if you showed up with the king’s army you’d be hard pressed to make him abandon his lands. Best leave them to their fate.”

  “No,” Darius said, hitting his fist upon the wooden table. “Not acceptable. They’re not that far out. I can get them back here in time before Cyric arrives.”

  “Half the day would be over before you got there,” Daniel argued. “You don’t have time, even if you can convince them.”

  “Only if you leave come nightfall,” Darius said. “Wait until morning. Give me that. I can convince them. Send a few of the boats south if you must, but we have the time.”

  “Assuming her guess is right,” Daniel said. “She’s going off a star in the sky. Forgive me if I’m not so trusting when she puts her finger on the map. And you still haven’t told me how you’ll persuade them.”

  “I’m a persuasive guy,” Darius said, grinning at him. “After all, you’re going to tell me yes, aren’t you?”

  The older man sighed.

  “Gods help me, I think I’m losing my mind…”

  Within ten minutes Darius was saddling up the finest gelding Tower Red had to offer. As he started to mount, Valessa joined him in the stable. She wore her plain gray shirt and trousers, and her arms were crossed over her chest.

  “You’re to go alone?” she asked.

  “Seemed to be the plan,” Darius said.

  “It’s a bad one.”

  “Those seem to work out best for me. If you’d like to come with me, just ask. No need to drug me and steal my horse.”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” she said. “I merely went along with it when I was asked.”

  “Of course you did,” Darius said, and he smiled at her to show all was forgiven. “After all, that was a good plan. Hurry up and saddle another horse, and be careful about it. Your presence seems to make them skittish.”

  Valessa shook her head.

  “You seem to forget, paladin, that the world doesn’t hold the same grip on me as it used to…”

  Hours later Darius pulled back on the reins of his horse. Less than a quarter mile ahead was the outskirts of Cade’s Rest. He’d hoped to see signs of preparations, maybe some wagons loaded up for departure, but instead the village was the same casual bustle that he’d grown accustomed to in the North. So far he’d not encountered any sign of Matt, the rider Livstrom had sent, and his fear for the man’s safety grew. Lifting a hand, he waved to the sky, then waited. A moment later a large white dove landed in the road before him, then morphed into Valessa, who stretched her arms and legs.

  “I could fly up there for hours,” she said.

  “Good for you, but I need you down here at my side. That, and I wanted to give you this.”

  He felt trepidation in doing so, but Darius also knew it was the right thing to do. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a heavily wrapped bundle of cloth. Within was the dagger Valessa had wielded in Willshire, abandoned when she’d fled with Cyric. He’d kept it from her ever since her return, but no longer.

  “It’s yours,” he said, and he could tell from her hesitation she knew what was inside the thin cloth. “Take it.”

  She reached out, then stopped.

  “I’m not sure I should,” she said. “It is an evil blade.”

  Darius frowned, and gently he unfolded the cloth to expose the dagger. Its blade was dark steel, its hilt expertly crafted. From the blade pulsed a soft red hue. The sight of it made Darius’s stomach uncomfortable, as it did whenever he looked upon it.

  “The blade is not evil,” Darius said. “I do not believe stories and fables. No blade is evil. No blade is good. It is only blessed by the wielder.”

  “Then it is truly an evil blade,” Valessa said. “It used to be mine.”

  “Then take it back,” Darius said, offering it to her. “Make it good.”

  Like a child reaching out to pet the muzzle of a wolf, Valessa slowly moved to take the dagger. With a sudden burst, as if afraid she might change her mind, she yanked it free of the cloth and held it before her. Immediately the illusion of her vanished, and Darius saw the swirling mass of light and dark that made up her form. The two entities danced, always interlocking, each unable to overwhelm the other. Where her hand touched the hilt, the darkness gathered deeper, swelling like water at the bottom of a well. Darius remained on his horse, not wanting to interfere, but he could see she was struggling. At last he leapt off.

  “Stay back!” she screamed, both hands now clutching the hilt. The blade itself was shining a vicious red. The glowing white essence, which ran like veins through her face, across her chest, and spiraled through her arms and legs, was steadily dimming. She fell to her knees, knees that splashed light and darkness as if they were liquid. Darius ignored her impassioned cry, and despite his own fear, he reached out to wrap his hand around hers. His hand sank through to touch the hilt of the blade. Immediately he felt a jolt to his chest, and a sense of fury beyond anything he’d ever felt before. It was the rage of Karak, and whether it was directed at him or Valessa, he did not know, nor did he care.

  “Be gone,” Darius said to it. “You’re wanted no more.”

  The dagger shook, a tremor building inside it. The rage grew, and for a moment Darius thought he would black out. A ringing filled his ears. He begged Ashhur for strength, and when he heard Valessa screaming, he knew he had to be stronger. He had to be better. Standing firm, he channeled every bit of his own rage into that blade, the betrayal he’d felt, the loss and isolation as everything he’d ever known had been revealed to be a lie. He remembered the loneliness, and then against Karak’s rage he flung the sheer joy he�
��d felt when Jerico reached down his hand and told him to stand.

  The ringing vanished, replaced with a sudden, explosive silence. The dagger fell from both their hands, now just an ordinary piece of metal. It landed in the road.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Darius said as his breath returned to him. “Some blades really are evil.”

  Valessa regained her form, skin shimmering back over her essence.

  “Next time you’ll listen,” she said, picking up the dagger and then sliding it into her belt. How it stayed there, Darius had no idea, nor did he want to know.

  “Next time?” he asked. “You think there will be a next time?”

  “For that, no,” she said. “For listening to me? I hope so. Now what are we to do here?”

  Darius turned his attention back to the village.

  “First we find out what happened to the rider,” he said. “Then we get the town to move.”

  “And what of Martin Reid? What if he causes trouble?”

  “Well,” said Darius, grinning, “that’s why I gave you your dagger.”

  They walked into the town, and much to Darius’s chagrin, it seemed no one appeared the least bit panicked. The words of the messenger had fallen on deaf ears. Passing through the rows of wood homes and thatched rooms, the people shot them glances but said nothing. Darius didn’t like it one bit.

  “Not much for hospitality,” he said to Valessa, who shrugged.

  “Your armor doesn’t make you look like the most welcoming of men.”

  “True. Perhaps you should put on your silver armor and purple cloak. Might as well match me.”

  She snickered at him but said nothing.

  Halfway through town they met a group of five coming from the other way. Four of them were big men, with burly arms and heavyset chests built from long hours in the fields. The fifth was a small man, balding, and he wore a long black robe.

  “Really?” Darius muttered as he came to a halt. “Livstrom couldn’t bother to say Martin was a priest?”

  “Welcome, friend,” said the priest. “My name is Martin Reid, and this is my village of Cade’s Rest. We do not see travelers often, but I assure you our accommodation will be welcoming, so long as you bring no trouble.”