Paladins: Book 03 - The Old Ways

by David Dalglish

  “Have you not had enough?” he asked, his hand closing about the hilt.

  “I have,” she said, even as her skin flaked away under the growing light of his sword. “I promise you nothing, for the blood between us remains. But that is not why I am here.”

  She hated doing so, but she must. Valessa fell to one knee, bowed her head, then looked up into Darius’s eyes so he might see the searing hatred in them.

  “Help me,” she asked. “Help me kill Cyric.”

  Epilogue

  Cyric wandered further into the wild lands trapped between the rivers. There were many creatures there, he knew. He’d read the books, seen the maps. When the gods’ war had sundered the land, Ashhur and Karak had given strength and form to the beasts so they might fight as soldiers. But now the creatures had abandoned their gods, or was it their gods who had abandoned them? He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

  The camp of wolf-men was small, but it would grow larger with time. He trusted his strength, the strength of Karak. Darius was only a dying vessel, one of the last paladins of Ashhur that his enemy might throw at him. Desperate, and wild in faith. Such a man would fall in time.

  At the edge of their camp the weaker wolf-men slept. Cyric stopped just before them, for he knew his scent would alert them soon. Growls confirmed this. The first to see him snarled, leapt from his sleep, and attacked. Cyric waved his hand, crushing his throat with a heavy stone made of shadow. Two more leapt at him, and with a word he burst the blood from their eyes and nostrils.

  “I have not come to fight,” he told them as more and more gathered. “Where is your leader?”

  “I am pack leader,” said a large wolf-man, pushing through the rest. His claws were sharp, his whole body lean with muscle. Cyric smiled at him.

  “My name is Cyric, priest of your god, Karak, the god you worshipped before you turned to the moon and in falseness gave her your faith.”

  “You speak lies,” said their leader. “I will enjoy the taste of your blood on my tongue.”

  “Try, if you wish. The strongest leads the tribe, after all.”

  The wolf-man feinted a direct rush, then circled to the side before leaping. It was a clever move, but Cyric did not fall for it. Clapping his hands together, he summoned manacles born of dark magic. They broke through the dirt and wrapped about the wolf-man’s wrists and ankles, slamming him to the ground. All around him, the rest of the tribe yipped with fear. A small tribe, maybe thirty at most; Cyric knew they would be the first of many. And he also knew that, as a human, he could never inspire their complete loyalty. He looked down at the captured wolf-man, then knelt mere inches from his snapping teeth.

  “I will give you great power,” Cyric said. “All you must do is accept the love of Karak, and swear your life to me. Can you do that? If you do, I will help you make your tribe a thousand strong. At my side, you will fight as we retake the north in Karak’s name. Heathen men will die before you, and your feasting will be great. What do you say?”

  The wolf-man looked up at him with startling intelligence in his eyes. The tribe fell silent as they waited for an answer from their pack leader.

  “I will serve Karak, if Karak will lead us to blood and battle,” he said.

  “Excellent.” Cyric banished the chains. “Rise, wolf, and tell me your name.”

  The creature rose to his full height, towering over him. His voice deepened as he spoke, a heavy growl eager for conflict.

  “Redclaw,” said the wolf.

  Luther knelt before his bed, hands clasped in prayer. They were not far from Lord Sebastian’s castle, and he expected an envoy from him at any time. Not that it would matter. His host marched beside him, and Sebastian’s army had been left tattered and in ribbons. If Sebastian wanted to retain power, he would have to turn to them, regardless of his own feelings.

  “All for you,” Luther prayed. “All I have done, I do for you. The lawless shall be broken upon the immovable law. In time, the North will be yours, not just in heart but in deed and law. May I remain strong, and break the will of Sebastian. We have left him nothing, as you desired. Let him know his strength is in his loyalty to Karak, not his own might and men.”

  Movement at the entrance of his large tent alerted him to a man’s arrival. Luther turned, saw one of his paladins holding a scroll.

  “My priest, forgive me,” said the paladin.

  “Yes, Grevus?”

  The paladin crossed his arms, and he looked uneasy.

  “We’ve received disturbing reports from the towers. It’s about Cyric.”

  Luther sighed, and with a groan, rose from his knees.

  “What has my pupil done now? Don’t bother reading the message, just tell me.”

  Grevus’s cheek twitched.

  “We hear he’s overthrown Sir Robert at the Blood Tower, and also assaulted the village of Willshire. Worse...I do not know what to make of this, my priest. Perhaps the messenger lies, or has heard wrong.”

  “Out with it,” Luther said, feeling anger growing in his breast.

  “Luther, among many other things, it says Cyric preaches that he is Karak made flesh, now free to walk the land and remake it in his image.”

  Luther swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He nodded to the lengthy message the paladin held in his hand.

  “Tell me everything.”

  A note from the author:

  I love writing these. Besides the obvious reason (yay another book finished and ready for readers!), these little notes are my chance to sit down, and for maybe a page or two, chat about the work, and try to decide how I really feel about the story. Of course, nearly every author can talk forever about their characters, just like most parents can talk forever about their children. I’ll try not to bore you too much, nor will I pull out the wallet photos.

  So what have I really learned from Old Ways? Two things. One, no matter if it is the Paladins or the Half-Orcs, Jerico’s life often sucks. He’s such a fun punching bag, I can’t help it. Two, Darius is the man. Parents may have to love their children equally, but I don’t have to when it comes to my characters. Some don’t live up to expectations. Some cause problems, and keep demanding attention. And then there’s Darius. This was supposed to be a series devoted to Jerico and his back-story, but more and more it feels like he’ll be stuck in Darius’s shadow. The highlight, though, is their interaction, and I’ll make sure they meet up once more in what I believe will be the fourth and final book of the paladins.

  I wrote earlier about how difficult Clash of Faiths was to write. Looking back, the dark tone was probably much of the reason, an overall grim feeling that, until the last few chapters, I was uncertain whether or not would be denied. But I’m happy to say this one was so, so much easier. Darius might have his struggles, and life isn’t a cakewalk for Jerico either, but they’re friends now, and united once more against a common enemy. I don’t know if this affected the story in any way, but I’m damn proud of it. Every book I release I feel confident it’s the best one I’ve ever done, but with this one, I’m doubly confident.

  Which means it might suck all the harder, but hey, if you made it this far, you at least finished the story, so that’s still a partial win.

  Some of you might have noticed how much longer Old Ways was compared to the previous two. That wasn’t intentional. The Paladins series was my attempt to write some shorter, more laid back stories, more fun and less carnage than say, Shadowdance. Well, the story is getting longer, and the emotional stakes have grown far, far beyond what I ever expected. Hopefully you’re all happy about that, because it caught me off guard. As Old Ways progressed, I started realizing just how much the scope was widening, and how much more story there was lurking beneath my original ideas. So when I say the next novel should be the last, don’t take that as a guarantee. It might not be. I won’t know until I write it. Darius and Jerico might end up with other plans...

  Some quick shout outs. Thank you, Ramsey, for the awesome maps. I know a few fans should be
rather happy about that. Thanks Peter and Terry for the cover, Derek and Ashley for the editing, and Rob for the early critiques to see if I was keeping the story on track. And last, but certainly not least, thank you, dear reader. It’s not always fun and games, but I do it for you. I’m a man dancing on the stage, and I’ll keep doing it long after the spotlight is off, so long as there’s a few of you out there still entertained.

  David Dalglish

  December 31, 2011

  And now, an excerpt from a damn fine writer and friend of mine, Daniel Arenson, and his epic trilogy Song of Dragons:

  Excerpt from Blood of Requiem

  a fantasy novel by

  Daniel Arenson

  War.

  War rolled over the world with fire and wings.

  The Vir Requis marched. Men. Women. Children. Their clothes were tattered, their faces ashy, their bellies tight. As their cities burned behind them, they marched with cold eyes. All had come to fight this day: the young and the old, the strong and the wounded, the brave and the frightened. They were five thousand. They had no more places to hide.

  The dying sun blazed red against them. The wind keened. Five thousand. The last of their race.

  We will stand, we will fly, we will perish with fire and tooth, Benedictus thought, jaw clenched. Men will say: Requiem did not fade with a whimper, but fell with a thunder that shook the mountains.

  And so he marched, and behind him his people followed, banners red and gold, thudding in the wind. Last stand of Requiem.

  It was strange, he thought, that five thousand should move together so silently. Benedictus heard only thumping boots. No whispers. No sobs. No whimpers even from the children who marched, their eyes too large in their gaunt faces. The Vir Requis were silent today, silent for the million of their kin already dead, for this day when their race would perish, enter the realm of memory, then legend, then myth. Nothing but thudding boots, a keening wind, and a grumbling sky. Silence before the roar of fire.

  Then Benedictus saw the enemy ahead.

  The scourge of Requiem. Their end.

  Benedictus let out his breath slowly. Here was his death. The death of these hunted, haunted remains of his kind, the Vir Requis who had once covered the world and now stood, still and silent, behind him.

  A tear streamed down Benedictus's cheek. He tasted it on his lips—salty, ashy.

  His brother's host dwarfed his own. Fifty thousand men stood ahead: swordsmen, horsemen, archers, all bedecked in the white and gold that Dies Irae had taken for his colors. They carried torches, thousands of fires that raised smoky pillars. Countless griffins flew over these soldiers, shrieking, their wings churning the clouds. The army shimmered like a foul tapestry woven with images of the Abyss.

  Benedictus smiled grimly. They burned our forests. They toppled our cities. They chased us to every corner of the earth. If they force us to fight here, then we will die fighting well.

  He clenched his fists.

  War.

  War crashed with blood and screams and smoke.

  Benedictus, King of Requiem, drew his magic with a howl. Black wings sprouted from his back, unfurling and creaking. Black scales rippled across him, glinting red in the firelight. Fangs sprang from his mouth, dripping drool, and talons grew from his fingers. Soon he was fifty feet long, a black dragon breathing fire. Requiem's magic filled him, the magic of wings and scales and flame, the magic that Dies Irae lacked and loathed. Benedictus took flight, claws tearing the earth. His roar shook the battlefield.

  Let them see me. Let them see Benedictus the Black, for one final time under the sky, spreading wings and roaring flame.

  Behind him, the Vir Requis he led changed form too. The solemn men, women, and children drew the ancient magic of their race, grew wings, scales, and claws. They too became dragons, as cruel and beautiful as the true dragons of old. Some became elder beasts missing scales, their fangs long fallen. Others were young, supple, their scales still soft, barely old enough to fly. A few were green, others blue, and some blazed red. A handful, like Benedictus, bore the rare black scales of old noble blood. Once the different colors, the different families and noble lines, would fight one another, would mistrust and kill and hate. Today they banded here, joined to fight Dies Irae—the young, the old, the noble and the common.

  This night they fought with one roar.

  The last Vir Requis, Benedictus thought. Not humans. Not dragons. Weredragons, the humans call us. Shunned. Today is our last flight.

  War. With steel and flame.

  Arrows pelted Benedictus, jabs of agony. Most shattered against his scales, but some sank into his flesh. Their tips were serrated, coated with poison that burned through his veins. He roared and blew fire at the men below, the soldiers his brother had tricked or forced into battle today. They screamed, cursed him, feared him; the Vir Requis were monsters to them. Benedictus swooped, lifted several soldiers in his claws, and tossed them onto their comrades. Spears flew. Flaming arrows whistled. Everywhere was blood, fire, and screaming.

  War. With poison and pain.

  Around him, the Vir Requis flew as dragons, the forms they always took in battle. They breathed fire and roared. Spears and arrows plucked the young from the skies. Their scales were too soft, their wings too small. They hit the ground, screaming, soon overcome with swordsmen who hacked them. Blood splashed. In death they resumed human forms; battered, bloodied, butchered children.

  They take our youth first, Benedictus thought. He slammed into soldiers below, biting, clawing, lashing his tail, ignoring the pain of swordbites. They let us, the old, see the death of our future before they fell us too from the skies.

  These older Vir Requis—the warriors—fought with fire, claw, and fang. These ones had seen much war, had killed too many, bore too many scars. Soon mounds of bodies covered the battlefield. The Vir Requis howled as they killed and died.

  Our race will fall here today, Benedictus thought as spears flew and shattered against his scales. But we will make a last stand for poets to sing of.

  And then shrieks tore the air, and the griffins were upon him.

  They were cruel beasts, as large as dragons, their bodies like great lions, their heads the heads of eagles, their beaks and talons sharp. In the books of men they were noble, warriors of light and righteousness, sent by the Sun God to fight the curse of Requiem, the wickedness of scales and leathery wings. To Requiem they were monsters.

  Today Benedictus saw thousands of them, swooping beasts of feathers and talons. Two crashed into him, scratching and biting. One talon slashed his front leg, and Benedictus roared. He swung his tail, hit one's head, and cracked its skull. It tumbled. Benedictus blew fire onto the second. Its fur and feathers burst into flame. Its shrieks nearly deafened him, and it too fell, blazing, to crash into men below.

  Panting and grunting with pain, sluggish with poison, Benedictus glanced around. The griffins were swarming; they outnumbered the Vir Requis five to one. Most Vir Requis lay dead upon the bloody field, pierced with arrows and spears and talons. And then more griffins were upon Benedictus, and he could see only their shrieking beaks, their flashing talons. Flaming arrows filled the air.

  Has it truly been only five years? Benedictus thought as talons tore into him, shedding blood. Haze covered his thoughts, and the battle almost seemed silent around him. Five years since my father banished my brother, since a million of us filled the sky? Yes, only five years. Look at us now. Dragons fell around him like rain, maws open, tears in their eyes.

  "No!" Benedictus howled, voice thundering. He blew fire, forcing the haze of death off him. He was not dead yet. He still had some killing in him, some blood to shed, some fire to breathe. Not until I've killed more. Not until I find the man who destroyed us. Dies Irae. My brother.

  He clawed, bit, and burned as his comrades fell around him, as the tears and blood of Requiem filled the air and earth.

  He fought all night, a night of fire, and all next day, fought until the sun again beg
an to set. Its dying rays painted the world red.

  Pierced by a hundred arrows, weary and bloody, Benedictus looked around and knew: The others were gone.

  He, Benedictus, was the last.

  He flew between griffins and spears and arrows. His brethren lay slain all around. In death, they lay as humans. Men. Women. Children. All those he had led to battle; all lay cut and broken, mouths open, limbs strewn, eyes haunted and still.

  Benedictus raised his eyes. He stared at the army ahead, the army he now faced alone. Thousands of soldiers and griffins faced him under the roiling clouds. The army of Dies Irae.

  He saw his brother there, not a mile away, clad in white and gold. Victorious.

  Bleeding, tears in his eyes, Benedictus flew toward him.

  Spears clanged against Benedictus. Arrows pierced him. Griffins clawed him. Still he swooped toward Dies Irae. Fire and screams flowed around him, and Benedictus shot like an arrow, roaring, wreathed in flame.

  Dies Irae rose from the battlefield upon a griffin, bearing a lance of silver and steel. Gold glistened upon his armor and samite robes. He appeared to Benedictus like a seraph, a figure of light, ablaze like a sun.

  Benedictus, of black scales and blood and fire, and Dies Irae, of gold and white upon his griffin. They flew toward each other over the mounds of dead.

  Benedictus was hurt and weary. The world blurred. He could barely fly. He was too hurt, too torn, too haunted. Dies Irae crashed into him, a blaze like a comet, so white and righteous and golden. Benedictus howled, hoarse. He felt Dies Irae's silver spear pierce his wing. He heard that wing tearing, a sound like ripping leather. It was the most terrifying sound Benedictus had ever heard, and the pain seemed unreal, too great to truly fill him. He crashed into the griffin that bore his brother. Screaming, mouth bloody, he bit down. His jaws severed Dies Irae's arm. He felt the arm in his mouth, clad in armor, and he spat it out, saw it tumble to the ground.