The Paladins

by David Dalglish

  Most of the camp was asleep, but he did not expect Valessa to be. Her gifted form had surpassed such a mortal need. At her tent he gathered his strength. Miles away his body lay unconscious beside the river, but his strength was the essence of his soul. It burned with fire, with faith, for why should it not? He was Karak made flesh, the god of Dezrel come to save them all. Into the tent he stepped, and he discovered Valessa’s capabilities for blasphemy had stretched even further than he gave her credit for. In the cot beside her slept Darius, the traitor paladin.

  For one brief moment he dared feel fear. He remembered his shame in Willshire, when he’d fled from that glowing blade. But his strength had been like that of a child compared to the power he wielded now. A needed lesson, he told himself. A reminder that his power could indeed be limited if he closed his mind and did not fully embrace his godhood.

  “Hello Valessa,” Cyric said, focusing his attention on her. He didn’t need to introduce himself, for her whole body shimmered with fear at his entrance.

  “How are you here?” she asked.

  At this, he laughed.

  “You stand before your god, yet ask such simple questions. Is that your deficiency? Is that why you so easily gave into fear and cowardice?”

  There was no way for her to deny it. Her terror held her immobile. Cyric walked closer, and a red glow shone from every surface of his body.

  “You’re not my god,” she said, but it was such a weak denial. “You’re a madman.”

  “Mad, perhaps,” he said. “I am mad when I see you walking free in this world. I am mad when I see others spitting in the face of the one who gave them life. But you’re wrong about one thing, Valessa. I am not a man.”

  He outstretched his hand.

  “You no longer deserve your gift,” he said. “And so I take it back.”

  She started to scream, but he silenced it in a heartbeat. Power flowed from his hand, and it tore at her form. He knew she could feel pain, and what she did feel must have been intense, but it was nothing compared to what she’d feel as the eons rolled along and she burned in the purifying fires of the Abyss. The woman crumpled to her knees, and she flashed with shadow and light. Her mouth remained open in a silent, wordless scream. Tears ran down her face, and when they touched the ground they were red like blood. She looked so pitiful, so weak, but Cyric hardened his heart against mercy. This is what he’d come to do. Valessa had been given enough chances to make amends.

  “Enough,” said Darius, and that single word sent a shiver through the soul-being of Cyric. Chastising himself for his fear, he turned and smiled at the traitor paladin.

  “He awakes,” he said. “Not that it will change anything.”

  Darius grabbed his sword from beside the bed as Cyric pointed a hand toward him. From his palm shot a great beam of shadow. The beam struck the light of Darius’s sword, and then they battled as Cyric tried to pour more of his power into his attack. Being separated from his body by such a great distance weakened him, but against a faithless wretch like Darius, he knew he still possessed enough. Willshire was an aberration, the mere stumbling of a child learning to walk. Curling his fingers, he poured his righteous fury into the attack. The beam halted, and instead a shadowy sword shimmered into being, striking at Darius from behind. He spun to block, but not in time. The blade passed through his armor and into his flesh. It did not break skin, and no blood splashed. Instead it set his muscles aflame, filling him with spasms that left him gasping on the floor, arms and neck straining into awkward positions. The sword fell from his grasp, the light on its blade fading away.

  “Where was I?” he asked, turning back to Valessa. She still knelt, struggling to maintain form. Her skin was translucent, her features hazy and without color. She looked like an unpainted doll. The gift of Karak still flowed through her, and with a wave he beckoned it back. No longer would she profane her god. No longer would her existence eat away at his subconscious.

  Shadows bled out of her, from her eyes, her nose, even the tips of her fingers. Her mouth hung open, and she thrashed upon the ground. Then she melted. It was the only way to describe the death happening before him. Her body turned liquid and ran into itself, bones like jelly, flesh peeling away to nothing.

  “Stop it!” Darius cried before his jaw locked tight.

  Cyric smiled. This was it, the final moments…but then as the last of the darkness was revoked, she still remained. His smile faltered. The skin and hair were gone, Valessa stripped down to her very essence. For a moment he did not see, but then the light shone. He recoiled in horror. What had happened to her? She had been one of the unfinished, a being blessed with a shadowed, shifting life, yet now the light of Ashhur burned within her. Her body reformed, the skin shimmering back over the light. When Valessa’s eyes reopened, a fury burned in them far greater than ever before.

  “Thank you,” she said, but there was only rage in her voice.

  Cyric cast a bolt of shadow at her, but she ducked it, instead rushing for Darius’s sword. Grabbing the hilt, she shoved it into Darius’s hands. The white light shone, and Cyric noticed it did nothing to her now. If anything, it made the life in her skin grow more vibrant. But the curse coursing through Darius’s flesh broke, and together they stood to face him.

  “What blasphemy is this?” Cyric asked. “Have you so fully abandoned your god that you would turn to Ashhur in your folly?”

  “What god is that?” Valessa asked. “You?”

  In answer, Cyric pushed his hands together and released wave after wave of pain and torment. There was no blocking it, no avoiding it, and he saw it immediately reflected upon Darius’s face. That he stood at all was a miracle. Valessa, however, only stepped closer with a look of maddening calm.

  “You’re not a god,” she said. “You’re not even a man. You’re a mad dog, Cyric. And we will put you down.”

  Her hand became a shining blade of light. He crossed his arms, but it punched right through, burning a hole in his robes and leaving a gaping wound in his chest that bled shadow. With a cry he flew back, back across the hills and over the Gihon to where his body lay on the grass, gasping. With a moment of disorientation he plunged into it. The pain hit him then, and he screamed out into the night.

  “You bitch,” he moaned as he curled onto his knees and tore at the grass. “You would deny me even now?”

  Deep in his chest he felt a fire burning. With each passing moment it lessened, but still the ache was unbearable, and greater was the insult it represented. Not a god, she’d told him. Not a man. Who was she to declare such things? She was Ashhur’s last resistance, he realized. She and the traitor were the best the failed god could do to protect himself, and both had been stolen from the ranks of Karak. Of course they were stronger. Of course they were dangerous. Twisted faith always was.

  “I will show you,” Cyric said as he rose to his feet. He stared south, and in his mind’s eye the miles were but inches. He beheld the tower, and the many tents alongside it.

  “I will show you all. I will not be mocked, nor denied. I am a god, you fools, a god!”

  His voice echoed across the camp so that all there heard his proclamation, bearing witness to his fury in the final moments before their deaths. With all his power he clutched the ground. Let the very earth tremble! Let it swallow the cowards, the traitors, the disloyal! And in his hands it did. The sound of a great crack echoed over the hills. Tents shook on their poles, and fires scattered. Greatest of all was Tower Silver, whose stones cracked as its foundation was rocked side to side. All around men and women screamed as it fell. Those within it were crushed instantly, as were many of the tents. Cyric felt exultation at the sight, but he was not done.

  “All of you,” he cried. “All of you will know only darkness!”

  More and more the earth churned. He tried to split it wide, to open a great chasm to swallow them all. A line spread like a spider web through the remains of the tower, but it would not split. Cyric felt himself at a loss for breath,
and his vision of the camp blurred the more he pressed on. At last he pulled back, and with a gasp fell to his knees. The earth grew still.

  Close, he knew. So close. With every prayer, every broken village, he felt his power being freed from the Abyss and pouring into his soul. While he wasn’t there yet, they’d seen it now. They’d watched their tower crumble, felt the earth rage beneath their feet. Such a shame the two he most desired to die had managed to escape the rubble and quake.

  “Time,” he breathed as he pushed himself to a stand. “All I need is time. I am the infinite, and you are the dust. You will not escape, Valessa, nor will your bastard lover. Pray for salvation. Pray for mercy. I am coming, and when I exact my glory upon your souls, you will wish for death.”

  Exhausted and bathed with sweat, Cyric returned to his camp, where the wolf-men waited. He called for Redclaw, and the giant beast came.

  “The survivors are by the river many miles south,” he told him. “Hunt them down, and stop for neither day nor night.”

  “And the tenth?” Redclaw asked, his head tilted to one side as he asked his question.

  “No,” Cyric said. “There will be no tenth, no professions of faith, no salvation. Kill them all, Redclaw, and let your pack feast upon the remains. They are wretched. Let their souls burn.”

  Redclaw smiled wide, and he reared back and let out a howl. One after another the rest of the wolf-men joined him, and then in a river of fire and fur they ran for the hunt.

  20

  When Cyric’s specter left their tent, defeated by the glowing blade of her hand, Valessa turned to where Darius lay on his back, tears running down his face.

  “Do not fight it,” she told him, kneeling down. “Breathe in, breathe out. The pain will pass as the spell fades.”

  He nodded, closed his eyes, and did as he was told. Valessa stayed at his side, a strange peace overcoming her. She took Darius’s hand in hers as his breathing calmed, the pain on his face slowly ebbing away. A part of her wanted to think on what had happened, to understand the meaning of what Cyric had done to her, but she dared not. The peace she felt, the comfort, she couldn’t risk ruining it. The pain was gone. The guilt was gone.

  “Valessa,” Darius whispered. He sounded like he’d just run a hundred miles. “I think we need to move.”

  And then Cyric’s cry washed over them, howling in mad fury. The ground shook along with it. Still clutching Valessa’s hand, Darius pulled himself to his feet. His arms wrapped around her as they staggered away. Screams of panic and pain filled the camp. Still pushing on, the first of many cracks splintered from the base of the tower. With a groan it suddenly tipped, then fell. Valessa ran faster, nearly dragging Darius away from the shadow it cast as the falling tower blotted out the stars. Mere feet behind them it struck, the impact sending dirt and dust billowing over them. Darius fell forward, rolling as stones flew all about them.

  The ground below continued to groan and shake, but the greater fury was spent. Cyric could do no more. Just as suddenly as it began the quake stopped, and in the following silence the cries of the frightened and dying filled the air.

  Despite how weak he seemed, Darius forced himself to a stand. He looked to the broken tower and shook his head.

  “Thank you,” he said, glancing her way.

  “For what?”

  “Saving me.”

  He trudged toward the tower, to help the others swarming it in a desperate attempt to locate survivors. Valessa remained behind, and in the momentary privacy she dared banish the illusion of skin so she might see what lay beneath. At the sight of shining light, and nothing else, she quickly brought back her illusion, then went to join Darius’s side. At first she stood about, feeling like an intruder, until Darius beckoned her over.

  “I know you’re stronger than I,” he said. “Help us lift the stones.”

  And so she did, pushing aside pieces of rubble that three men together could not move. They pored over the remains, but of the fifty that had slept inside, only four had lived. The rest of the bodies they piled together, and come the rising of the morning sun, they prepared a pyre. Twenty more bodies joined it, those whose tents had been crushed by the tower’s fall.

  Daniel Coldmine demanded he be the one to light the pyre.

  “I got out just in time,” he said, having slept on the bottom floor. “But it should have been me. Those men, they were young. They were loyal. Damn it all, I’m tired of watching the young die.”

  All around were refugees of the various villages, and they remained respectfully quiet as Daniel stood before them, torch in hand. For a brief moment Daniel looked at Darius, as if the paladin might speak. Changing his mind, he shook his head and flung the torch onto the bodies. They’d been soaked with oil and covered with kindling, and they caught with ease. At the far back of the crowd Valessa watched, and she felt her condemnation of Cyric growing.

  Burn the sick branches with fire, she thought. It was one of the axioms they’d been taught. Burn them so the healthy may live. But they weren’t burning the sick. Cyric was killing at will, slaughtering anyone that might deny his claims of godhood. If they were to judge by fruits and not by words, then Cyric was not a saver of souls but a butcher of thousands. And there, at the front of the crowd, was Darius, who had counseled all that he could, and had been the last man to leave the crumbled pile of stones. The last man to give up.

  She thought once more about the being she was now, and for once it did not frighten her.

  If I am a blasphemy, so be it, she thought as she watched the smoke rise. But I see no hope in Karak. I see no life. Gods help me, I think Darius might have been right from the start.

  The crowd had begun to disperse, to ready their things for another day’s march, when a cry came from the western guard. Valessa rushed to the front, for a vague feeling had plagued her since the early morning. It was faith in Karak, and it rode ahead of the approaching army like a stench. At least a thousand marched along the road toward them, their flags showing the roaring lion. At first Valessa had to calm herself, lest she panic like the many about her. But a glance to the sky showed the black star was far away to the north.

  “Are they allied with Cyric?” Darius asked, coming up beside her.

  “If they are, then we are already defeated,” she said. “Our tower is broken, and we have no walls. Against such a force we have no hope.”

  Darius touched the hilt of his sword, and despite his obvious exhaustion, there was no defeat in his eyes.

  “We’ll see about that,” he said, leaving to join Daniel. Absently she followed, her mind still on the approaching army. There was a presence with them she recognized, though distantly. It was different from the others, once painful yet now somehow…comforting. It made no sense.

  Daniel Coldmine was surrounded by his men, and he shook his head as he listened to them.

  “No,” he said at last. “They outnumber us, they’re better trained and better armed. I’ll ride out to hear their terms, but so long as they’ll let the common folk live, I have every intention of surrendering.”

  A few protested, but they were not many. They’d run themselves ragged fleeing from Cyric, and now a new enemy came from the west. There was nowhere left to go.

  “Come with me,” Valessa said, touching Darius’s shoulder. “Something bothers me, and I want you to see.”

  “If you wish,” Darius said. “But we might need to flee, and soon. The peasants might get away unscathed, but I doubt any army of Karak will be happy to let us slip through their fingers.”

  About five hundred yards from the camp the army halted. The people gathered in groups, fearfully watching for the slightest sign of violence. Daniel waited with his most trusted men, and from somewhere amid the rubble they managed to find a flag of Mordan they might wave. With it high above their heads they went to meet Karak’s delegation. Against the twenty red, black, and gold banners of the lion, it looked meek. Just to the side of the crowd Valessa stood, and when the delegation ma
rched out from Karak’s army, she pointed, unable to hide her excitement.

  “There,” she said. “That is who I sense. Do you know him, Darius? Is he who I think he is?”

  The group walked closer, and there was no disguising the red hair, the silvery armor, and the giant shield strapped to his back. Darius’s grin spread wide, and for the first time that morning both dared hope.

  “That crazy whoreson,” Darius said. “What in blazes is he doing with them?”

  “A captive, perhaps?”

  “A captive who keeps his weapons and armor?”

  Darius suddenly ran to join Daniel, and Valessa hurried after. She kept herself in the guise of a commoner, not wanting to upset a precarious situation because of her former allegiances as a gray sister. Daniel gave them a glare, and she could sense his worry about what them joining him meant. But then they heard Jerico cry out in surprise.

  “Darius?”

  Beside Jerico was a priest, who clearly led the army, and when Daniel bowed low to him he bowed in return.

  “I am Luther of Mordeina,” he said, “loyal priest of Karak.”

  “And I’m Daniel Coldmine, and I control what’s left of the wall of towers. Please tell me you’ve come to help, not kill.”

  Before he could answer Jerico and Darius embraced, and they both laughed with joy to see each other again. Valessa watched with her eyes downcast, feeling like an outsider. She stepped back so she might stand behind Daniel, and her presence go unnoticed.

  “I’ve come to kill,” Luther said, glancing at the paladins. “But it is not you, so you may stand down your men. Tell me truthfully, Sir Daniel, do you run from the one known as Cyric?”